


Kiss Her Twice, Keep The Night On

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-09 23:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 103
Words: 124,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4368716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr prompts and drabbles of Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin in every other universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. being human (not)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: I’m a med student who has a huge crush on the hot guy who works at the coffee shop who always gives me free drinks when I’m stressed and calls me princess even though I pretend I think it’s annoying but I’m extremely concerned about him because he always smells like smoke so I always give him lectures about how terrible cigarettes are for you and i may have made a powerpoint which is probably excessive but lung health is extremely important and oops it turns out he’s part-dragon or something hahahaha oops” AU (this one is bellarke as fuck though someone write it for me please!) (also dragons tend to like kidnap princesses and put them in their towers?? which is basically bellamy just wanted to be all monogamous and shit with clarke okay?? that’s how he shows affection it’s just a biological thing oh my god)

Look, Clarke has this college thing  _down_. She’s organized as fuck, for one, and she also has a foolproof colour coded post-it system she developed in high school. She’s not a procrastinator, she updates her weekly planner with test dates religiously, and she likes to read ahead to stay on top of the syllabus. She’s going to  _own_ college. **  
**

Three weeks into her freshmen year, and Clarke’s considering going into therapy.

The workload is staggering for one and coupled with her required non-course related modules, she’s pretty much drowning. There are tests every other week and twelve page essays due and there’s a constant twitch in her eye that she can’t diagnose. (“Just stop drinking your fucking coffee already,” Wells had grouched after he caught her reading up on botox injections.)

Her one silver lining had been the tiny coffee shop she had discovered around the corner. The dropship was small and unpretentious, vacant enough for her to curl up onto the sofa to sometimes catch a quick nap. The coffee and pastries were decent and she always got the seat by the power plug.

Then she meets the new barista and it all goes to shit.

He won’t stop calling her princess for one, and keeps a constant steady stream of complaints about how complicated her coffee order is. He never writes Clarke on her cups, preferring to come up with increasingly ridiculous variations of the princess nickname. (There was  _princess consuela banana hammock, your royal highness, not kate middleton but still a diva_ ) **  
**

And god, she hates it, but he also gives her free coffees when she’s on the verge of crying, muffins when she’s close to tearing her hair out. He sits next to her when it’s relatively deserted, his ankle brushing against hers as he reads. The table by the power plug is hers, basically. He made a small little placard for her,  _for princesses only_  written in neat block letters, small crown drawn on the side. (She hates to admit it but she loves it)

She gets his name the second time this happens, him casually settling into the armchair next to hers, feet propped up on the table and book in hand.

“It’s Bellamy,” He said, his eyes still on his book, “Now are you going to finish your essay or are you going to keep procrastinating?”

(She finishes the essay. He slides a bagel over when she begins editing.)

Clarke’s not going to lie- she likes having him around- mainly because he’s great company, content to just sit in silence with her or hold her hand when she starts freaking out about failing.

He doesn’t mind when she falls asleep on his shoulder either, his breath stirring her hair and his skin burning against hers. Bellamy ran hotter than others- he constantly radiated warmth and never wore a scarf, not even when it was bitterly cold out (Clarke puts it down to a high metabolic rate)- and she likes to bury her face against his neck, nuzzle a little to leech his body heat.

He smells overwhelmingly of smoke, musky and hazy all at once, and she draws him like this- all soft, smudged lines and ashes in his hair, embers in his eyes- and he catches her sniffing him, her nose buried into the soft fabric of his jacket, and goes, all casual, “Are you smelling me or suffocating yourself in my jacket?”

“Suffocating myself,” She mumbles, trying to hide the flush in her cheeks, and before she can chicken out, she asks, “How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?” Because he’s her quasi-friend, _okay?_  She’s allowed to be concerned for him. Friends do that. Worry about each other, that is.

“No,” He says, all innocence, “I don’t smoke. Now why would you think that?”

“You smell like a fireplace.”

“Maybe it’s just my distinctive scent,” He chuckles, low and amused, throwing her a wink.

She wants to argue, maybe inform him on the importance of his lung health but then a horde of teenage girls barrel in, demanding frappes, and she nevers gets the chance.

__________________________

Okay, so Clarke is pretty invested in this friendship with Bellamy. That’s pretty much the only reason why she makes the powerpoint. Also, he’s a great barista, okay? Where is she going to go get her coffee fix if he drops dead from lung disease?

She waits until he goes on break before springing it on him, on the pretense that this is a presentation for one of her classes. She’s pretty sure it’s going well at first but then he gets bored and fidgety, keeps fiddling with the hole in his jeans and tapping a pen against his knee. Clarke’s rattling off some statistics when he tries to leave and she nearly pulls his arm out of his socket to get him to sit back down.

“For the billionth time,” Bellamy says firmly, “I do not smoke.”

She stares at him in disbelief, says instead, “You do know smoking is the leading preventable cause of death in the United States, right?”

He makes a frustrated noise and disappears behind the counter. For a second she panics, because she doesn’t know how to deal with a pissed off Bellamy, but he reappears minutes later bearing waffles and a cup of hot chocolate.

“When’s the last time you ate?” He says, pushing the plate towards her. “You look dead on your feet. You should nap.”

She takes a bite of the waffle, eyes him suspiciously, “Why are you always babying me?”

“I’m  _taking care_  of you,” He retorts gruffly, “God, princess. Only you would think of this as babying.”

She drops her head onto the table, groans as he ruffles her hair absentmindedly. The smoke smell lingers on his fingertips, the sleeves of his jacket.

“You really don’t smoke?”

“I really don’t.” He says, and well. She believes him.

Bellamy goes back on duty after, so she gets started on her film theory assignment, one of the non-course related modules that she thought would be fun. (What a joke) She’s halfway through Twilight and trying not to laugh at the cheesy dialogue when Bellamy drops into the seat next to her, his brow furrowed.

“You’re watching this because?”

“Required for my class,” She says, handing him the other earbud, “Knock yourself out.”

He makes snide comments the entire time, mocking the acting and the cast and basically everything about it, but gets weirdly quiet when Edward makes his ridiculous vampire speech. For a second, Clarke thinks he’s asleep but then she realises that he’s just watching it really intently.

“Bella is a idiot,” He says finally, relaxing into his chair.

Clarke snickers, adds, “Yeah, if someone were to tell me this crap, I would be running in the other direction.”

He doesn’t say anything, just looks at her, his mouth twisting into the smallest of smiles, “Yeah.”

It’s strange but he treats her a little differently after, more hesitant to sit by her, to lean into her touch. The coffees and snacks are still there, of course, but Clarke can’t help but feel that she has offended him somehow. Instead of confronting him about, she mostly stews about it in her room, going over that conversation where everything seemingly went wrong. It’s stupid and self destructive and pretty pointless, but still.

“So he just started acting weird after the Twilight thing?” Wells says, dubious, his voice crackly and garbled over the phone.

“Yes,” Clarke mutters, winding her pencil through the haphazard bun she sculpted, “Maybe I offended him because he’s secretly into vampires.”

“Maybe,” He says, “I mean I guess that’s plausible. What’s with the smoking though?”

She flops back onto her bed, the springs creaking ominously below her, “He says he doesn’t, and I believe him. But he still smells like a chimney. And-” She thinks about the last few days at the dropship, mostly spent observing him as he lingered behind the counter, pretending to be busy, “I don’t know. There’s been some strange things I’ve noticed, I guess.”

“Like what?”

Clarke doesn’t know how she never noticed- maybe it’s because she used to be too busy spending time with him to actually  _observe_  him but- there are strange patches on Bellamy’s skin, dark brown, like scales. Noticeable on the tanned expanse of his stomach when his shirt rides up, on the exposed skin of his hipbone. Sometimes she think she catches sight of a amber ring around his eyes, bright and lit up like a flame, but he will blink and it’s just Bellamy again, with his soft brown eyes.

He had pretty much avoided her the whole of yesterday, choosing to re-stack the mugs by the counter, and she had been sulking by her seat, pretending to remain unaffected. Clarke had sketched the scattered number of patrons in the shop instead, eventually going back to Bellamy, trying to get his fine features just right, from the shape of his ears to the slope of his nose-

She jolts up from her position on the bed, scrambles for her sketchbook. There’s the sketch of Bellamy by the counter, smoke lingering over his form, and she had always assumed that it was steam from the coffee machine-

“Wells,” She says slowly, “Do you still have the bestiary your dad gave you when you were a kid?”

And that’s how Clarke finds out, perched half asleep on Wells’s desk as he shakes her awake roughly, “Have you considered that your mystery dude could be half-dragon or something?”

It makes sense, as absurd as it sounds, and she finds herself photocopying the excerpt in Wells’s book, her hands shaking a little. She goes over the two in the morning, still riding the high of having discovered something potentially life changing.

He’s seated by her favourite table, feet propped up, and she strides up to him, trying to ignore the churning of her stomach as she slides the sheet over to him. He stares, and she can see him scanning the page quickly, before shifting his attention back to her.

“Guess the secret’s out,” Bellamy says, ducking his head, shy almost, and she thinks it’s possibly the most endearing thing she has ever seen. She leans over and kisses him, missing his mouth and getting his jaw instead. He huffs against her cheek, his laugh exasperated, until their lips meet and she tastes smoke and salt and rust.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” She mutters, and he laughs again, his chest warm and rumbling under her touch.

“I’ll tell you all about it,” He says, before kissing her again.


	2. blame it on the alcohol

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: we drunk-kissed and now i don't know how to act around you wtf and bellarke PLEASE

Here’s the thing about growing up with your best friend: you can’t help falling in love with them. **  
**

There was no sudden, dramatic moment of clarity or a mad scramble to declare his feelings. One day he’s looking at her, pretty much the same face that he has looked at for the past eleven years, and he thinks,  _I could love you forever._  And that’s it. That’s when he knew.

Octavia tells him to grow a pair and just tell her already, but what difference does it make, really? Clarke could be with someone else and he would love her all the same. It’s not like that with them- it’s not pining and jealousy and confessions- it’s easy. It’s simple. He loves her and he wants to be with her, and one day, she might feel the same. If not, he takes what he can get. Having Clarke around is better than not having Clarke at all.

( _This feels like acceptance,_ Octavia tells him, all accusatory. He doesn’t know how to explain that it feels a lot more like hope.)

Then he fucks it all up the night of Octavia’s engagement party.

The entire night is a blur of champagne and raucous cheering and bright lights, but he remembers the kiss. He remembers the way she had gasped into his mouth, and the taste of champagne against her lips and her fingers scratching his scalp. He had kissed a path down her neck, muttered  _I love you, I love you, I love you_  against her skin and she had stood on her tiptoes to kiss him again after he pulled away, her hands holding onto his elbows, nails digging crescent moons into his skin.

You can’t come back from something like this, he knows. He can’t look her in the eye now, can’t sling his arm over her shoulders without remembering the taste of her lips, can’t kiss her forehead and not think about how she had sighed into his mouth and relaxed into his touch.

So he’s doing what he does best: avoiding her.

He’s sitting by the patio, nursing his beer and considering lighting up a cigarette when she finds him.

“You’re missing the barbecue,” Clarke says, settling in next to him. Her shoulder brushes against his and he flinches, shifts in his seat so there’s some distance between them. He’s hoping that she won’t notice, but from the bewildered way she’s looking at him, he reckons that she did.

“What’s with you?” She says, narrowing her eyes at him, “Are you ignoring me?”

“No,” He says hastily, setting his beer down in between them, then as polite as can be, “So how have you been?”

“How have you been?” She says, disbelief colouring her tone, “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

He focuses on her toes, painted a pale pink, nail polish a little chipped in some places. There’s that scar on her middle toe, acquired when he accidentally dropped a pair of gardening shrubs on her foot. Clarke’s father had carried her to the emergency room and Bellamy had trailed behind the whole time, crying as hard as she was.

“Not really,” He tries to sound nonchalant, “We didn’t get to catch up much at the engagement party so I thought-”

She reaches out and grabs his chin, and he hisses at the contact, contemplates tugging away, but she’s looking at him and her eyes are wet. He hasn’t seen Clarke cry since her senior year of high school, when Jake died.

“Clarke,” He breathes, pressing his thumb against the corner of her eye and he can feel her lashes against his skin, “What’s wrong?”

“You’re mad at me, and I don’t know what I did.” She says, soft and quiet and  _miserable_  and he has never hated himself more than he has than in this moment.

“I’m not mad at you,” He says, pressing his forehead against hers, “I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with you, in any way, at all-”

“You’re lying.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but this is Clarke, and she knows him better than anyone else, and she’ll see right through him in seconds. And he’s shaking now, because god, he wants to tell her, he wants to tell her more than anything but he can’t lose her either. She’s his best friend and his constant and she makes everything better and he could live without her, he knows that, but he really doesn’t want to.

“I kissed you. At the engagement party,” He says, and he’s thankful that as scared he is, his voice is steady, “But that’s not- that’s not the point, I guess.”

She doesn’t stiffen or move away after this admission, so he takes it as a good sign that she’s not completely repulsed by making out with him. So he goes on, “The point is that I kissed you because I’m in love with you. I have been for a while, actually. I just didn’t know how to tell you. And I wanted to bring up the kiss but you didn’t seem to remember-”

“I don’t,” She interrupts, “I hardly remember anything from that night.”

“Right,” He says, and he thinks he can feel his heart sinking to his shoes, “So, anyway-”

Then her fingers are sliding up his jaw and she’s kissing him again, soft and sweet and gentle. It’s not as urgent as the first one, not frantic at all, and she’s kissing him like she has all the time in the world, as if it could be a common occurrence. His hand slides down to her neck and he can feel her pulse, quick and steady and familiar.

She pulls away, her hand still resting against his cheek, “Love you too, you doofus.” She mutters, “I can’t believe you didn’t figure it out.”

He laughs, shifts his hand up to stroke her cheekbone, her temple, “You made it real easy for me too. What an idiot.”

She takes his other hand, laces their fingers together and whispers against his skin, “Promise you, I’ll remember this kiss.”

“Thank god,” He mutters, ducking down to kiss her again, and it feels right, he thinks, symbolic almost, for all this to happen at the very same place they met years ago.

(When he tells her this, she rolls her eyes at him, elbows him in the ribs. “ _Drama queen,_ ” She mutters, and he thinks, well. Some things never do change.)


	3. until I saw your face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: could you please do this 'we’re the Old Married Couple™ but lmao no we would never date each other. right? right?????!!!?' for Bellarke please????

It all starts with that stupid milkshake.

“Thirty five minutes,” Octavia announces as Clarke slides into the booth across her, elbowing Jasper in the ribs until he scoots over to make room, “You guys are thirty five minutes late. I took the liberty of ordering for you guys.”

“It’s not my fault  _someone_  got lost and refused to ask for directions.” She mutters, shooting Bellamy a dark look.

“Well who’s the one who broke the GPS last week?” He grumbles, grimacing as he takes a bite of his eggs. She can tell that he hates it, from the increasingly sour look on his face, the way he spears another forkful with unnecessary vigour.

If there’s one thing that Bellamy hates, it’s bland food. It’s stupid really, because the idiot would pretty much eat anything as long as it was coated with a generous amount of salt. He once ate a _dog biscuit_ with salt after she had dared him to. (She had to do his laundry for three months, and that’s pretty much how she finds out that he wears boxer briefs.)

She slides over the salt and pepper shakers and he shoots her a grateful smile.

“I got you a oreo milkshake and pancakes,” Octavia says, “You prefer pancakes to waffles right?”

“She doesn’t even like breakfast food,” Bellamy interrupts, “And she can’t drink that milkshake either, she’s lactose intolerant.”

“Mildly,” Clarke stresses, “I’m only  _mildly_  lactose intolerant. There’s a difference.”

“You call yourself a med student?” He scoffs, “Fine, drink it. Don’t come crying to me when you start having cramps and vomiting all over the place again.”

“For the last time, I didn’t know your laptop was buried under all that crap. Maybe if you actually bothered cleaning up-”

“Like your room is pristine?” He says mockingly, and just when she’s winding up for a brutal comeback, Monty coos, “Aww, they’re fighting like a old married couple!”

And that’s when the nightmare begins.

Bellamy buys her a pair of orthopedic sneakers (“Maybe if you got some shoes with arch support, you’ll stop needing fucking foot massages.”) after she wears out her old pair, and Octavia squeals, “Hashtag married!” before snapping a picture for Instagram.

She nags at Bellamy until he switches from Cheerios to multi-grain squares and Jasper tweets their entire exchange, prompting complete fucking strangers to ask how long they’ve been married and are they going to try for children soon? (Bellamy finds it hilarious. Clarke just finds it humiliating.)

It’s stupid, really, because it’s not a big deal. That’s how they have been ever since they became roommates a year ago. Bellamy always remembers to buy her almond milk and she irons the collars of his shirts because he tends to forget. He knows how she takes her coffee and she knows when to offer him digestive biscuits and tea. (Mainly when he’s stressed out and antsy over work.)

It’s not romance, it’s familiarity and comfort and well, a partnership. It’s the ability to recognize what each other needs without even having to say a word. It’s instinctual, seamless. It’s waking up in the middle of the night, drowsy and cold, listening to the rain pattering against the window panes and knowing that he already set out the buckets because the roof leaks. She trusts him. She trusts him beyond anything, at this point. He’s her best friend, her partner, and there is no need for pretence with him.

It’s pretty hard to convince her friends of their platonic status though, especially after Raven catches them cuddling and eating pizza during a Harry Potter movie marathon. “It’s purely _platonic,_ ” She stresses to them over drinks, and she’s not sure if it’s because she’s drunk but the words feel slow rolling off her tongue, acrid and slurred, “I’ll never date Bellamy. That’s crazy talk.”

It must convince them, because no one even breathes the term old married couple around them anymore. And everything is just as it is, until Bellamy decides to go on a date.

At first she thinks it’s a fluke- Echo is Octavia’s colleague after all, and maybe he’s just doing it so O will get off his back- but he’s ironing his best dress shirt and there’s a bouquet in the fridge and she’s never been so jealous in her life.

She’s making herself ramen when he emerges, hair slicked back and smelling like expensive cologne, and he feels like a stranger. The Bellamy she knows smells like sweat and also of soap. His hair sticks up in tufts even after he’s brushed it and she can always find a hole in his shirt, likes to poke her finger through it and wiggle it against his bare skin.

His collar is crumpled though, and the sight of it makes her heart hurt. She turns her face away and pretends to be adding seasoning.

“I’m leaving in ten,” He says, adjusting his cufflinks, “Do you want to grab you some dessert before I swing back?”

“If you even make it home,” She mutters under her breath.

She’s not looking at him, but she can feel him pause, his eyes on her back, “What are you trying to get at?” He snaps.

There’s a lump in her throat and she can feel the familiar pressure building up behind her eyelids, a tell tale sign that she’s going to start bawling. “Nothing,” She manages, “Sorry I was being weird. I’ll see you later.”

He doesn’t go- just stands there, looking at her- and the silence feels unbearable, thick and awkward. She keeps stirring at her noodles, her legs surprisingly shaky from the entire encounter, and that’s when he says, “Are you jealous?”

She should lie- the right thing to do in this situation is lie- but she can’t bring herself to, not when he’s looking at her like that, all raw and vulnerable and apprehensive. So she just mumbles, “Maybe,” and drops her gaze back to the burnt pot of ramen.

Then he’s laughing, and Clarke feels a swell of indignation because how dare he make light of her stupid, non platonic feelings for him-

“Hey!” He says, pulling onto her arm as she tries to storm dramatically from the kitchen, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you,” She says stonily, “Go on your stupid date, I changed my mind and I don’t care-”

“Clarke,” He says firmly, “You know I’m only going on this date because Octavia won’t shut up about it, right?”

“You say, as you put on your best dress shirt.” She grumbles.

“It’s a fancy place,” He retorts, grinning stupidly, his thumbs rubbing small circles onto her forearms as she glares up at him.

“What are you smiling for?”

“You got jealous,” He says, all triumphant, and she makes a disgusted noise, tries to pull away, but he rests his forehead against hers instead, hand cradling her cheek and the fight goes out of her.

“If the roles were reversed, I would have been jealous too.” He admits, his voice soft, and it’s possibly the best thing she could expect to hear.

She surges up to kiss him, and it’s messy at first, teeths clacking and noses bumping, but they soon fall into sync -as always- and she thinks she could get used to this, kissing him, that is. He nips her lower lip and she runs her fingers through his hair, working it free from the gel.

They pull apart to breathe, and she tells him, “I really hate your hair like this.”

“That’s what you choose to say after we make out in the kitchen? Uh, rude.”

“Fine, what should I have said then?”

She has her arms looped around his neck, and his are resting on her waist, and Clarke wants this. She wants to be able to press a kiss against his collarbone when they snuggle, to run her thumb against the shell of his ear when they hug, to lace her fingers between his when they’re out. She wants him, plain and simple.

“You should have said told me how much you’re into me, and then asked me out on a date. After I call and cancel with Echo, that is. It’s only polite.”

“Where would we even go on a date?” She says, poking his stomach and laughing when tries to squirm away from her.

“Erm,” Bellamy frowns, a small crease forming between his eyebrows, and she presses down on it until he relaxes, “Well, we’re out of milk.”

(They end up going to Costco, Bellamy in his dress shirt and Clarke in her sweatpants, and they get toilet paper and popcorn on discount, all while sneaking in kisses between aisles. As first dates go, this one is pretty darn perfect.)


	4. fake dates (are a horrible mistake)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: MY PARENTS WON’T GET OFF MY BACK ABOUT GETTING A SIGNIFICANT OTHER AND THEY’RE HAVING A GET-TOGETHER IN A FEW DAYS PLS PRETEND TO BE IN A RELATIONSHIP WITH ME. THIS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE FACT THAT I’M HEAD OVER HEELS FOR YOU BUT IT SURE IS A NICE BONUS - Bellarke

“This is a terrible idea.”

“This is a great idea,” Clarke insists, “You’ll see. By the end of this, I’ll be telling you that I told you so.”

“You better follow through with your end of the deal once we’re done with this,” Bellamy mutters, tugging uncomfortably at his tie. She has to smile at that- big, bad Bellamy Blake being forced into a suit two sizes too small- and reaches out to help him loosen it at the traffic light.

“Remind me again why you don’t have your own suit?”

“What’s the point in owning one,” He grouches, “I normally don’t have a reason to wear a monkey suit out.”

“What about weddings?” She says, trying to hide her smile.

“If it’s mandatory to come in a suit, then we’re not really friends.” He says, slumping over to press his forehead against the window, “Are we there yet?”

She extricates one of her hands from the wheel, pats his head soothingly as she struggles not to burst into peals of laughter at his petulant expression, “Patience, young grasshopper. The promise of free food awaits us.”

“There better be scallops.” He says, sulky, and yeah, she’s pretty sure she made the right choice in bringing him.

Her mother’s engagement party to Marcus Kane was something she had been dreading for weeks. Not because her mother was getting remarried to a old friend of her father’s, but mostly because of the passive aggressive comments she kept dropping.

There was the first, pity-filled, let me set you up with someone! phone call, followed by the you should put yourself out there! motivational email, and, finally, the Clarke, you’re going to die alone! text.

The next time her mother had called, yet again, to nag about her single status, she had blurted impulsively, “I’ll be bringing someone.”

“Do I know him?” Her mother had asked, intrigued. “Why didn’t you tell me before that you were dating someone?”

“He’s shy.” She mumbled, before making a lame excuse and hanging up.

It had taken an inordinate amount of begging on her part to get Bellamy to agree. He had been surprisingly resistant and only relented after she promised to speak to Octavia about moving too quickly with Lincoln. (The last time Bellamy had brought it up, the resulting blow up and cold war had lasted for five months. Clarke’s not anxious for a repeat.)

“Why couldn’t you have asked Jasper?” Bellamy had grumbled as he struggled to button up Monty’s shirt, “Or even Lexa?”

“Well, you’re my best friend,” She had admitted, and then flushed so red she had to excuse herself to calm down.

The truth is, she may have a tiny, extremely minuscule crush on her best friend. No big deal.

She’s known him since he was fourteen, her best friend’s older brother, constantly skulking into the kitchen during their sleepovers and eating all the avocados they planned to make face masks out of. She hated that he was older, smooth and confident and assured as compared to her. She hated that he was always correcting her, pointing out things like how she mispronounced salmon and that’s not how you do long division.

She hated how she wanted to impress him, hated how triumphant she felt when she made him laugh uproariously at one of her jokes. Even back then, getting a smile out of Bellamy had been a challenge. “My brother’s never laughed so hard at anything before,” Octavia had said, pulling Clarke up to her room, and she would never admit how that statement alone made her feel, warm and proud and above all, special.

Somewhere along the way, they became best friends, and for years it had been that simple. She had loved him in the way that best friends do, all encompassing and wholly, and it took her years to realise that what she felt for him went beyond it.

He would smile at her- and she knew all of his smiles now, there were the small ones, just the corners of his mouth flicking upwards, the slow, lazy ones, taking up his entire face- and she would feel this incredible wave of fondness and love for him, her best friend, and she can’t help but think, please be mine.

“We’re here,” She tells him as she pulls up into the driveway. He’s pale, a little clammy looking, head still pressed against the window. She frowns, checks his forehead to see if he’s running a fever, “You okay champ?”

“Fine,” He says queasily, “Let’s just get this over with.”

He holds her hand loosely in his when they ascend the stairs, and it’s different this time, awkward. She used to love holding his hand, to take comfort from the heat of his skin, the way he would squeeze her fingers to reassure her, or run his thumb down her knuckle to calm her down. This is different- this is stiff and unfamiliar- and she hates it.

“Loosen up,” She tells him when they enter the room. He’s jumpy and tense by her side, cagy almost. She passes him a flute of champagne wordlessly and he chugs it down, wiping his top lip with the back of his hand.

The night only gets progressively worse- he keeps messing up the story of how they got together, stammers nervously every time someone brings up marriage- and Clarke really has to pull her weight, making sure to throw him adoring gazes in front of everyone and clinging onto his arm, grinning widely, as her relatives coo over them.

She’s ready to call it a night and head back when she sees her mother, champagne glass in hand, Kane’s arm slung through hers.

“Put your arm around me,” She hisses, as Abby catches sight of her, waving them over. She can feel the bob of his adam’s apple as he gulps, the rigidness of his muscles against her neck, and she’s pretty sure this is going to be a disaster.

“Clarke!” Abby exclaims, “And er, Bellamy?”

“Surprise,” She says weakly, as they exchange cheek kisses and hugs. He winds his arm around her waist once they’re resumed their original positions, his hand warm against her hip, his smile still a little forced.

“So how did this happen?” Abby asks, her tone a tad reproachful, “Last time I checked, you guys were still friends.”

“Well, it’s us,” She hedges, smiling brightly, “I guess it was there along, and we just didn’t realise it. We were inevitable, mom.”

She doesn’t miss the way he reels back from her slightly, as if he’s been hit, a small sound escaping his lips before he regains his composure, turning to smile at Abby instead as he parrots her statement. She laces her fingers between his, squeezes, a silent plea to tell her what’s wrong, but he’s unresponsive.

“You always fall for your best friend,” Kane says, chuckling, and Clarke’s pretty sure her smile is more of a grimace at this point.

They excuse themselves, and the minute they are out of sight, he pulls away from her, storming off. “Where are you going?” She calls out to his receding back, “Bellamy!”

She loses him in the crowd for a second, but then she sees his dark hair going up the stairs, disappearing into the bathroom. She jiggles the doorknob, checking to see if it’s locked, before she goes in, easing the door shut behind her with a loud click.

He’s standing by the sink, hair a mess, tie askew, shaking. She’s tempted to ask if he’s alright, but then she thinks of his behaviour, how he fucked it all up, and she’s too angry to even consider sparing his feelings.

“What the hell was that?” She snaps, tugging onto his elbow so he’ll look at her, “You acted as if you didn’t even like me as a person, Bellamy! I can’t believe you-”

“I couldn’t do it, okay?” He snaps, “I couldn’t just stand there and go through with it. You can’t do that, Clarke, you just can’t.”

 

“Do what?” She shrieks, “Play a perfect fake girlfriend?”

“You can’t just look at me like that!” He bellows, his voice hoarse, “You can’t smile at me like that and tell your mom we’re inevitable and go back to the way it was. Don’t you get it? I can’t do it.”

She’s shaking now too, and she does the only thing she can think of, reaches out to take his hand. This time, he squeezes. When he speaks again, he’s calm.

“You can’t do all these things, okay? Because when you do, I start to feel hopeful. I start to think that maybe it isn’t as one-sided as I think it is, that maybe, just fucking maybe, you could love me back.” He exhales, ragged and slow, “I want this to be real. I want a us. But to you, it’s all just pretend.” He runs his hands over his face, body slackening as he rests against the edge of the sink, “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”

She takes a shaky step towards him, the realization of everything making her light-headed, cupping his chin in her palm so he’ll look at her, “Not pretend.” She tells him, running her fingers up to his jaw, his hair tickling as she rubs the spot behind his ear, “I wasn’t pretending.”

Then he smiles, heartbreakingly familiar and sweet, murmurs against her skin, “I really, really want to kiss you now.”

“You probably should,” She says, and his mouth is over hers, her back slamming against the bathroom door as he crowds over her, holding her face just so. His lips are soft but insistent, and when giggles at his enthusiasm, he nips the corner of her mouth before leaning down to nuzzle her neck. It’s all affection and heat and yeah, she made the right choice bringing him here.

“If we go back out and I re-introduce you to my mom as my boyfriend, I mean, you’re not going to freak out on me, right?”

She feels him smile against her collarbone, his hand coming up to hold her face in place to kiss her again, “By all means.”


	5. that one stray cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: for bellarke bc your fics are great! “I’m a newly-turned werewolf without a pack and I can’t really control myself well on full moon nights yet and you keep finding me passed out naked on your lawn” AU, feat. werewolf!bellamy :)

Bellamy Blake is bitten the night of Halloween, and if that isn’t irony at its finest, he doesn’t know what is. **  
**

He wakes up with the taste of blood and grass against his tongue, something prodding him insistently in the spine. He groans, tries valiantly to sort through what he remembers of last night: the halloween party at O’s, walking home, the flash of teeth,  _Miller-_

“You better not be dead.”

He blinks, rolling over, and there’s an angry blonde looming over him, stick in hand.

“No,” He agrees, “Not dead. Just confused.”

“It speaks,” She says, poking at his thigh with her stick, “Mind explaining to me why you’re butt-naked on my lawn at 8am in the morning?”

“I wish I knew,” He mutters, shifting so he can cover himself, and well, it’s not like he can be further humiliated so he asks, “Do you think I could borrow some clothes?”

“I don’t think my clothes will fit you,” She says dryly, but she does come back with a hoodie and a pair of pink athletic shorts with a stretchy waistband.

“So what do I tell my friends,” She asks, as he tries to wriggle on the shorts without exposing himself, “A drunk guy fell asleep on my lawn last night?”

“I wasn’t drunk,” He argues, zipping up the jacket, subconsciously feeling for the puncture wound on the side of his ribs (he remembers the bite, the hulking form, blood warm and sticky between his fingers) and he feels nothing but smooth skin, hot to touch-

“So what happened?” She prompts, and he stops just to take her in, the blonde hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, the blue of her rumpled scrubs, a single eyelash stuck to her cheek, right by her mouth.

“Bellamy,” He says instead, offering his hand. “Thanks for not calling the cops. And when I find out what happened, trust me, you’re on the list of people to call.”

(It turns out her name is Clarke, and she’s an intern at the hospital and she saved her name in his phone as _I want my shorts back._  Suffice to say, he’s pretty damned intrigued.)

__________________________

It’s not hard to figure out what happened, exactly, not when you have a roommate who witnesses everything.

He goes for Octavia’s halloween party, is bitten on his way home, and stumbles back into the apartment, cursing that  _fucking feral possum_ and bleeding everywhere. Miller slaps a bandage on him, makes him down two shots, and puts him to bed.

“You could have brought me to the hospital,” Bellamy interrupts, and he thinks Miller might actually hit him, before he declares, voice rising in pitch, “You can’t even afford to pay  _rent,_  you asshole.”

He puts Bellamy to bed, and everything is fine until it’s not. It’s all hazy for Bellamy at this point, but this is apparently the part where he transforms into a giant wolf, tries to take a chunk out of Miller’s arm, and bursts out through the window to terrorize the neighbourhood.

“You’re probably a werewolf,” Miller tells him, all nonchalant, and Bellamy thinks he pretty much has the best taste in friends of all time.

There’s a lot of guesswork involved, rudimentary research done in between their full-time jobs and social lives. Miller buys him chains and a bedazzled collar when the full moon approaches, tries to play off his anxiety by telling bad jokes and doing passive aggressive things like leaving empty cartons of juice in the fridge and not clearing out the garbage.

The last thing he remembers is being chained to the refrigerator, the sturdy  _click_  of Miller bolting his room door behind him, and the next thing he knows, he’s back here again, as naked as ever, laying face down on one Clarke Griffin’s lawn.

“Do I even want to know?” She says, exasperated, when he knocks on her door.

“Not really,” He grunts- and he has to give it to her, she’s handling all this craziness really well- “Can I borrow something?”

It’s sweatpants and a oversized school shirt this time, and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes linger a little on the sharp vee of his hip bones, the slant of his shoulders. He ducks his head so she won’t see him grin.

“You know, I’m really attached to this shirt,” She says mildly, “Could you actually remember to return it this time?”

“Shit. Didn’t I return you your other stuff?”

“Yeah, you left it on the porch.” She says, the corners of her mouth twitching, “Instead of texting like a normal person. It was weird.”

He rubs the back of his neck, shrugs. He’s not really sure how to explain the whole,  _I’m a werewolf and it’s probably best if we don’t interact for your sake_ situation.

“Oh come on,” Clarke says, “I thought I was on your on the list of people to call once you figured it out.”

“I mean, I have a rough idea,” He stammers, “Just not the full picture.”

He can feel her studying him, her expression contemplative, her lower lip trapped between her teeth. “I guess,” She says finally, “My lawn is all yours to crash.”

She starts leaving out clothes for him, folded neatly on the porch- actual guy clothes, in his size- and sometimes she leaves out a saucer of milk, which confuses him at first, because  _what the fuck honestly_  until the one time he asks her about it, and she actually blushes, mumbles, “Well, you’re kind of like a stray cat. You know, loitering about my lawn and stuff. I thought it’d be funny.”

It’s not funny, it’s downright sweet, and he really, really wants to tell her the truth, but he thinks of the blood he tasted against his tongue the very first night, how he swiped at Miller. He’s unpredictable, volatile, and he’s profoundly grateful that he always turns up on her lawn after the shift instead of during, when he could hurt her-

So all he says instead is, “If you leave the milk in a glass, I’ll drink it.”

He redoubles his efforts into controlling himself during a full moon, does extra research with Miller and tries everything, from meditation to making a containment circle out of salt (“Are you sure we’re not summoning demons instead?” Miller had muttered as they traced the salt into neat lines) and none of it works, until Miller suggests the concept of an anchor.

“Think of something that keeps you grounded,” He had advised, “Something to concentrate on to keep you human.”

“Where did you get  _that_  from?”

“Teen wolf.” Miller says, completely straight faced.

There’s no harm in trying, so he thinks of his friends, of Octavia, but his blood is roaring in his ears and there’s a pressure behind his eyelids that’s unbearable-

And his thoughts go to Clarke, of her standing by the window, her lips quirked up into a sarcastic smirk as she waves out at him. She made him breakfast one time, badly burned tomatoes on toast, arranged it to make a smiley face. They had sat on the porch and ate it together in companionable silence, her leg pressed up against his.

He can physically feel his heart rate slow, his muscles relaxing, a shiver coursing throughout his body. Then it’s over, and he’s still human, the moon painfully bright against his eyelids.

It gets easier after, maintaining control, that is, and by the third month he’s pretty confident in his abilities. He still shifts sometimes, but he always manages to stay conscious, aware of his surroundings, of himself.

He waits for her by her porch, and it’s been months but there’s the neatly folded pile of clothes, the glass of milk she must have set out before she left for work. The sight of it makes him smile stupidly.

“What’s with the milk?” He asks her cheerfully, when he sees her round the corner, dressed in her familiar uniform of scrubs and a messy ponytail.

He thinks he can pinpoint the exact moment when she realises he’s in his own clothes, actually  _wearing shoes_ this time, and she’s grinning at him, all bright and happy.

“Had a stray cat,” She says, waving him off, “It’s a long story.” She pauses, her hand poised on the door knob, before adding, “Wanna come in?”

And he never figured out why he always ended up at Clarke’s lawn before, why his subconscious was always gravitating towards her, but here she is, smiling up at him, and he’s warm with the possibility of  _something,_  of a maybe.

“Sure,” He says, and follows her inside.


	6. every little thing she does is magic: tessomancy (1/?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "•we’re partners in divination, and i’m reading your tea leaves, and i don’t know what i’m doing, so i just am guessing on images, but somehow every image i guess ends up having a romantic connotation, i swear i’m not doing this on purpose" Hogwarts prompt?

“Griffin.”

“ _Blake._ ”

They eye each other warily, eyes narrowed and teeth clenched, her fingernails sharp and his grin feral.

And this is how it always goes: she curses his ears to twitch all day, and he hexes her so bats fly out of her nose. She turns his morning porridge into concrete and he turns her eyebrows pink. They have Transfiguration together, and Mcgonagall makes them sit at different ends of the room, the only students to have been assigned seats.

She eyes them furtively even after, left eye twitching, and suffice to say she hasn’t forgotten the last time they got into a brawl, with Bellamy suspended from his ankles in his underwear and Clarke’s toenails tearing through the sole of her shoes as they grew.

(Honestly, there’s no point separating them because she looks for him anyway, raring for a fight, and he’ll cast a jelly legs jinx the same time she sends a tongue tying curse his way, and well.)

Their rivalry is a thing of legends- Slytherin’s head girl and Gryffindor’s golden boy, ripping into each other at every opportunity- and the first years scatter when they see them approaching in corridors, squealing; their professors exasperated when they disrupt class _yet again_ to conduct a shouting match on wand holding techniques.

Everyone knows of them. Everyone, except Professor Trelawney.

She slams her book down on the table, quivering, as she settles in across him. He shoots her a scowl, steadying the rattling teacups and pointedly looks away.

“I can’t believe I’m stuck with _you,”_ She mutters, pulling her hair away from her face, “Just so you know, I’ve already requested for a change in partners.”

“Oh, and Trelawney didn’t immediately attend to your needs and do your bidding? Shame.” He drawls. She shoots him a pointed glare before kicking out at him, and he yelps as the chair jerks below him, nearly sending him sprawling.

“Just drink your tea already,” She says tightly.

“I don’t take orders from you,” He retorts, and he sees her arm twitch, inching towards her wand stashed by the side of her skirt, before she relents. Shooting him yet another venomous look, she downs her tea and slams it down onto the table defiantly.

“Manners,” He admonishes, grinning at the ugly expression on her face, before he downs his too. The liquid burns hot against his throat, sickly sweet and musky, and he has to resist the urge to gag, setting the cup down before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

They exchange cups, her fingers brushing against his, cool against his overheated skin, and she jerks backwards so abruptly he’s surprised she doesn’t fall off her chair.

“There’s a man in your cup,” She says, after a beat, “Oh, and he has horns on his head?” She wrinkles her brow in mock confusion, peering harder into the depths of the cup, “I think he’s holding a pitchfork. He’s also telling me that he is the personification of your soul, Blake.”

“Real original of-”

“What’s the fuss here?” Trelawney snaps, bustling over, and the class falls silent almost instantly, anticipation and glee written all over their faces. “It’s starting,” Someone hisses, and he can hear people shifting in their seats, braced for the inevitable showdown.

He’s sorely tempted to say something that will set Clarke off, but the big game is next week and he really can’t afford detention right now, so he says instead, “Nothing, professor. I was just about to read Grif- I mean, Clarke’s tea leaves.”

“Well get on with it, then.”

“In front of everybody?” He says stupidly, and catching sight of the murderous expression on her face, pretends to be absorbed by what he sees in the cup.

“I think there’s a leaf in here,” He starts reluctantly, “It looks like a maple leaf.”

“Miss Griffin, would you kindly read out what it symbolises?”  

She sighs, aggrieved, flipping to the page before beginning to read in a monotonous voice, “It is often placed at the foot of beds to ward off demons and to encourage peaceful sleep. It, much like the sap it produces, depicts the sweetness and wonder of love in everyday life. The maple leaf is also the emblem of lovers.” She halts, cheeks colouring, as the class bursts into sniggers and whispers.

“Actually, it looks more like a turtle,” Bellamy adds quickly, “Look, I can make out a shell if I tilt the cup a little to the left.”

“Because of its hard casing, the shell is a protective image,” Miller reads through barely concealed laughter, a tremor running through his body, and Bellamy has never wanted to strangle his best friend more, “It symbolizes the protective quality love sometimes takes.”

Someone hoots, Murphy reaching over to ruffle his hair and put him as Bellamy squirms, trying to push him off, and with everything going on, he expects Clarke to say something, _fight back,_ but she’s just sitting there, face red, eyes lowered.

Trelawney eventually restores order, and she’s still not looking at him, her gaze fixed on the point above his head. He chances a quick look down at her hands, wonders if she already has her a wand at the ready, but they’re curled into fists, fingernails digging into the soft skin of her palm.

He lowers his voice, ducks closer so she can hear him, “Look, I didn’t do that on purpose.”

“Don’t,” She whispers, her voice sharp and brittle, and he has never heard her sound like this before. He’s known her for five years and in those years she had always been _princess_ , her voice frosty, her demeanour snobbish, lips twisting to deliver yet another cutting remark and a curse to boot.

Nothing he’s ever done has warranted such a reaction from her. He wets his lips, scrambles to come up with something to say-

Then class is over, and she leaps out of her seat, nearly barreling over Murphy in her haste to get away. He swears under his breath, jumps up to follow her.

“Hey, Griffin! Oh for fuck’s sake,” He mutters, sliding past a pair of startled first years, “Would you just wait up already?”

She ignores him, marching down the corridor to Charms, which is blessedly empty. He has to run a little to catch up to her stride, grappling for her elbow before he manages to get a tight hold on it.

“What is with you?” He snaps, “Look, I’m sorry if I tarnished your precious reputation out there, being associated with a _muggleborn_ like me-”

“That is _not_ what this is about!”

“That is exactly what this is about,” He fumes, fingers trembling as he shoves them into the pockets of his pants forcefully, “ _Princess Griffin,_ directly descended from Salazar Slytherin, all high and mighty and better-”

“Shut up.” She says, voice tremulous, but he can’t seem to stop the vitriol tumbling off his tongue, bitter and angry, wonders if he’s imagining the taste of blood caught between his teeth-

That’s when she kisses him, backing him up against the wall, her fingers tangling in his tie to pull him closer. Her lips are insistent on his as he exhales shakily against her cheek, his teeth scraping against hers.

She kisses like how she fights- unrelenting and bruising, all heat- and like everything with them, it becomes a competition. Clarke bites down on his lower lip until he moans into her mouth, and he slides his hand down her spine to palm her ass, crushing her to his chest until she squeaks. She digs her fingernails into his side, chipped and uneven against his skin, and he buries his fingers in her hair, twisting it in his grip.

Clarke pulls away first, breathing heavily, her left cheek red from when his stubble had chafed against her skin. He reaches out to touch her, fingers dancing against her cheekbone, and she leans into his touch for a second, eyes closed, before stepping away.

“It’s not about your blood status,” She says haltingly, her voice shaky, “Okay?” Then before he has the chance to ask her about it, she walks away, her steps hurried but measured, hair still partly braided from where he had ran his fingers through it.

(“Where the hell were you?” Miller hisses, when he slides into Charms class fifteen minutes late. “Nowhere,” He grouches, fixing his tie- and he only sees it later- black and blue against his hipbone, half moon crescents on his back, and honestly, he’s not surprised that she’s left a mark.)


	7. every little thing she does is magic: patronus (2/?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: yoooooo can you please please please continue that hogwarts bellarke fic? the tea leaves one? But like, with patronuses or something? just any classic hogwarts trope (please)?

He’s suddenly and irrevocably aware of Clarke Griffin now, and he hates it.

He sees her in the dining hall, tying cherry stems with her tongue, and he’ll think of the sweep of her tongue against his, the moan she breathes into his mouth. She’ll be in the library, hands holding together the spines of falling apart books, flipping the thin pages gently, and his mouth will go dry at the thought of those fingers against his spine, the scratch of nails against his skin.

Miller sneaks a few bottles of firewhisky from the kitchens, and Roma kisses him that night, eager and sloppy. When he pulls away, sweaty and bleary eyed, he swears he can still taste Clarke against his lips, spicy and musky and intoxicating.

He buries his head against Miller’s neck, woozy and overheated, his thoughts sluggish and movements clumsy, mutters against his skin, “Clarke Griffin has fucking  _ruined_  me.”

 The morning after is terrible. He wakes up, and he tastes death in his mouth, breath foul and stale and acrid. Miller makes him drink three glasses of orange juice, attempts to sort out his hair while Bellamy sulks into his food, cursing the creators of firewhiskey.

(He sees a flash of blonde two tables away, the glint of a prefect’s badge, and he stumbles away before he can get a better look)

Potions go by relatively quickly- it’s a combined class with the hufflepuffs, and he’s working with Jasper Jordan, who actually knows what’s going on in class- so Bellamy manages to coast by and submits a passable befuddlement draught.

His last class of the day is charms with the slytherins, and the sight of Clarke turns his stomach. Her hair is done up in a set of intricate braids again, the pale cream of her bra strap showing when her sweater falls off her shoulder. He averts his eyes, stares down at his piece of parchment until the lesson starts.

It’s a extremely tricky lesson- they’re learning how to conjure the patronus charm- and thankfully he doesn’t do too badly, despite being distracted. He’s able to produce puffs of silver vapour when class ends, the vague outline of his patronus huge and hulking.

“Hey,” Murphy snickers, coming up behind him as he puts away his things, “Look at the princess. She’s terrible.”

He scans the classroom, finds her by the back of the classroom, face screwed up in concentration, still practicing. She’s barely producing any vapours at all, and it’s clear she’s frustrated, if her furrowed brow and clenched fists are anything to go by.

“Guess she can’t be good at everything,” Murphy smirks, and he barely manages a half-hearted, “Yeah,” before people start pushing past him to get to the dining hall.

“Are you coming or what?” Miller says, shoving him lightly as he slings his bag over his shoulder.

“You guys go ahead,” He says, pretending to rifle for something in his bag, avoiding Miller’s piercing gaze. Sometimes, he hate how shrewd his best friend is. “I’ll catch up.” He insists, and Murphy finally relents, taking Miller with him.

The classroom empties out, and it’s just them now. She has her back facing him, her posture ramrod straight, her wand held stiffly in her grip. He drops his bag back onto the table, clears his throat so she’ll notice him.

“What?” She snaps, dropping her arms to her sides, “Stayed behind to gloat?”

“Maybe,” He snarks, and they’re back in familiar territory, all hostilities and confrontations, and the pressure against his chest seems to lift. This he can deal with. This he can understand.

“Relax your goddamn arm,” Bellamy mutters, poking at her elbow with his wand, “What are you, a corpse? Loosen up.”

She shoots him an icy glare, but shakes out her arm anyway, shifting closer. He can smell her shampoo, lavender and violets, and for a second he loses his train of thought.

“Don’t jab,” He adds hastily, when she makes an exaggerated move that nearly takes out his eyeball, “Flick.” He wraps his hand around her wrist, shows her exactly how to do it, and he can feel her rabbit-like pulse against his skin.

“Why are you helping me?” She murmurs, her gaze flitting upwards to meet his, and he finds himself staring at the arch of her neck, the slight bob of her throat when she swallows. He doesn’t know what to say- he never knows what to say- so he strokes his thumb over her wrist instead, holds her gaze. Clarke shudders, her breath shaky when she exhales.

He’s not sure if she reaches for him first, or if he did, but her lips are on his, urgent and unyielding, and he winds his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She makes a breathy whine when he latches onto her neck, nosing at the goddamn bra strap that has been taunting him all day. “Fuck,” She breathes when his teeth grazes her jaw, her hands fumbling against his sweater while he slides his hands under hers.

Bellamy smiles against her neck, pinches her waist slightly, “Swearing is unbecoming of you, Griffin.”

“You’re infuriating,” She tells him, her nails skimming over the taut skin of his stomach, settling on the vee of his hipbones, “Shut up already,” She says, interposed between kisses against his earlobe, his collarbone.

He pulls away when the need to breathe is too much, and he can hear Clarke’s ragged breaths against his neck before she buries her face into his sweater, groaning. Bellamy’s grinning like an idiot now, his hand cradling the back of her neck so he can rest his chin on her head.

“Last time,” She says firmly, her voice muffled against the thick fabric of his sweater.

“You like me,” He says, smug, and she retaliates by thumping her fist against his chest.

“I don’t like you,” She says, petulant, “I like  _this_.”

“Making out in classrooms and groping each other in corridors?”

Clarke sighs, pushing her hair away from her face, and before he can over think it, he reaches out to smooth down her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear.

“I mean it, Bellamy.” She says, side stepping away from him, smoothing down her skirt, “We can’t do this again.”

He’s not surprised- he isn’t, really- because Clarke has standards to maintain, a reputation to upkeep, and he can only imagine the scandal that it will cause if they were to ever date, despite her insistence that it’s not about his blood status. A pureblood slytherin shacking it up with a mudblood gryffindor? Ha.

Her rejection still stings though, so he makes sure he injects enough venom in his voice when he says, “Whatever the hell you want, princess. Last time it is.”

(It’s  _definitely_  not the last time.)


	8. statistics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “I’m the one who started screaming in the middle of campus during finals week. You’re the one I saw spitting their drink out of their nose laughing.” AU + bellarke

Bellamy has woken up in some pretty strange places in his life.

There’s been the library after pulling an all-nighter, sheets of post-it’s stuck to his face and breath still smelling of the coffee he drank hours ago. A frat-house bathroom, head spinning, the smell of smoke heavy in the air, shoes missing. ( _Fucking_ Murphy.)

But this? This takes the cake.

The first thing he registers is the taste of blood in his mouth, salty and hot. He groans, lifts his hand to rub at his face, only to realise that it’s his nose that’s bleeding. The cold metal of the bench is digging into his spine (where the everloving _fuck_ is his shirt?) and there’s a blonde girl hovering over him.

He blinks up at her, props himself up on his elbows so he can look at her properly. She has flecks of mascara caught in her lashes, some of it smudged against the corners of her eyes. Her blonde hair is done in one of those intricate braids that he could never fathom, and there are dark stains all over her white shirt. He’s considering if he should say something snarky about the shirt situation- _did you shake the can?_ \- but then she smiles at him, and his mouth goes dry.

Correction: There’s a _really pretty_ blonde hovering over him, and he’s more than a little humiliated.

“You okay? You hit your head pretty hard back there.”

“Back where?” He says stupidly, and she frowns, fingers probing against the back of his skull.

“Yeah, there’s a bump there.” She mutters, threading her fingers through his curls before pulling away, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Four,” He says impatiently, sitting up fully, “Wait- are you patronising me?”

“I’m checking to see if you have a concussion,” She says with exaggerated patience, “Duh.” But she does slide over a wad of tissues after, which he gratefully accepts, balling it up in his fist and holding it up against his nose.

“What happened?”

She laughs, incredulous, “You really don’t remember?”

He tries to sift through the jumbled up thoughts in his head- but everything feels strangely disjointed, the world muffled and blurred, hazy and unformed- then he catches sight of the book tucked under her arm, _Genetics 101_ , and he remembers.

“It’s finals week,” Bellamy announces, and she laughs again, a nice sound, her fingers smoothing back the hair from his forehead. “Go on,” She says encouragingly.

“Statistics. Fuck,” He mutters, and he has a dim recollection of going through his statistics notes, folder bulging and spilling over with his half-hearted attempts at dissecting the questions, “Fuck, I hate statistics.”

“You made that abundantly clear,” She says wryly, “When you started screaming, right here in the _quad_ , mind you.”

“Fuck,” Bellamy breathes, “Wait, in front of everyone?”

“You had an audience,” She says, completely nonchalant, “Oh, then you threw your notes into the fountain, stripped off your shirt and tried to take a shower in there. That’s when you,” She gestures to his nose, mimes a truly epic face plant while he groans, “You hit your head first, and when you tried to get up, you fell face first. There was blood everywhere. The freshmen thought you were dead. It was awesome.”

“Please tell me you’re making this up.”

“I couldn’t if I tried,” She says, surprisingly smug, “It was comedic gold.”

He groans, winces at the squishy sensation of his toes jostling around in wet socks, “I’m not crazy, you know. Just sleep deprived and desperate. Did you happen to see my shirt?”

She points to the vicinity of the bushes, and his heart sinks at the thought of having to grope around the foliage on his hands and knees.

“Alright, forget it.” He says with as much dignity as he can muster, getting to his feet. “Thanks for your help, good luck for your finals, and,” He stutters, and he’s doing the thing where he talks excessively with his hands, “Sucks about your shirt, I guess.” (There’s a bunch of freshmen gawking at him from the next table, and that’s really enough humiliation for today.)

She arches her brow at him, pointedly looking down at the stains before looking back up at him, “Let’s just say I was drinking a coke when this all went down. It’s really hard to keep it in your mouth when this random guy just starts screaming and taking off his shirt, you know?”

“Right, okay.” He says, nodding, and maybe agreeing with her will offset the fact that he’s blushing, “Thanks again.”

“You know,” She says, tapping her finger against her chin, “I really think you should buy me another coke. To make it up to me, of course.”

And she’s smiling in a way that makes him feel like there’s something burrowing in his chest, taking root, twisting and infinite, and so he tells her, “Sounds fair.” (He’ll blame it on sleep deprivation later.)

(Turns out her name is Clarke Griffin, and Bellamy thinks he likes statistics a whole lot better when it’s rolling off her tongue.)


	9. every little thing she does is magic: three times they almost get caught, one time they do (3/?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Can we please get a continuation of that wonderful bellarke hogwarts AU?!

**(1)**

She walks into the great hall to thunderous applause, to raucous whoops and some jeers, and he thinks he’s the only one who can tell that she’s nervous.

Clarke settles into her seat, chin held high and eyes steely, frost and fire all at once. A Ravenclaw lobs a bread roll at her, and she blasts it away with a lazy flick of her wand before going back to buttering her toast serenely.

He hides his smirk behind his palm, thinks,  _that’s my princess,_  and has to spend the rest of breakfast not dwelling on where that thought had come from.

“My money’s on Ravenclaw,” Murphy says, sliding him another bowl of porridge, (He sure has motherly instincts for someone quite so aggressive) and he inhales it before sneaking another quick peek at Clarke. She catches him staring and drops him a sly wink, adjusting her emerald seeker robes, and he sputters on his juice.

Murphy thumps him on the back, mutters, “What’s  _with_ you?” while Bellamy tries to wave him off, croaking, “Save me a seat,” before ducking out. He sucks in a breath of cold air, lets his head fall back against the wall as he runs his palm over his face, because seriously,  _fuck Clarke Griffin._  


“Not going to wish me any luck?” Her voice teases, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when she rounds the corner, laughing.

“Well I couldn’t. Not when everyone was around,” He counters, pulling her close so she can rest her chin against his shoulder, her breath tickling his jaw. “You’re going to kill it, Griffin.” He says against the shell of her ear, tries not to show how pleased he is when she shivers.

“What if we don’t win?” She says softly, just meant for him to hear, and he tightens his hold on her, briefly allows himself to wonder how they got here- enemies once before, confidants now- before murmuring, “You  _will,_ ” as he strokes her hair.

“You’ll be in the stands, right?” Clarke says, pulling back, her fingers tapping a beat against his elbow.

“Front row, princess.” He assures her, leaning down to kiss her just how she likes it, slow and deep and languid. She sighs into his mouth, relaxing, her fingers winding around his tie as he fumbles with the clip of her robes.

She giggles, unclips it in one smooth motion before letting it fall from her shoulders as he surges up to kiss her again, trailing his lips down her jaw and onto her neck.

“No marks,” Clarke chides, and he grunts into the juncture between her neck and her shoulder, giving it a light kiss as she grabs his ass. He shoots her a mock-stern look and she laughs again, kissing his nose, pecking his eyelids while he grins at her stupidly.

“Clarke? You out there?”

Bellamy swears under his breath, pushing her off gently while she scrambles for her robes. He straightens his tie, schools his expression into one of pure contempt.

“Oh,” Raven says, catching sight of him, “Blake? What are you doing here?”

“Wishing the princess best of luck on her game,” He says snarkily, giving a mock bow as Clarke stares at him, expression stony, “Don’t fall off your broom.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” She snaps, turning away, manner now brisk and efficient, “Let’s have a fair game, Raven. I like you, so I don’t want to have one of my beaters send a bludger your way.”

He slinks off when Raven’s distracted, making his way to the pitch. He doesn’t manage to find Murphy before the game starts, but he’s sure that it’s a blessing in disguise considering he forgets to exercise restraint and jumps up to cheer with the rest of the Slytherins when Clarke snags the snitch, 320-180.

(“I just lost twenty sickles,” Murphy grumbles as they trudge back up to the castle, and well, he thinks, smiling smugly into his scarf, that’s what you get when you bet against the princess.)

**(2)**

“There’s too much light in here,” Clarke grumbles, burrowing under his blanket, “Ugh, Gryffindors. It’s because of your constant need to show off, isn’t it?”

He snorts, resumes his task of tracing circles on her back, “I suppose the Slytherin dormitory is pitch black, like your souls?”

“Duh,” She says, flipping over so she can rest her head against his chest, before adding hesitantly, “I’ll bring you someday, if you want.”

He busies himself with playing with the ends of her hair, tries not to think about the implications of the statement- that this is a long-term arrangement, that she wants to keep him around- and instead, loops his gryffindor scarf around her neck instead.

“Beautiful,” He comments, and she flushes prettily before yanking it off, straddling his lap to kiss him. Okay, so maybe skipping charms isn’t a great idea when they have their N.E.W.T.S this year, but it’s  _Clarke_  and-

“Shit,” She swears, pulling away, her hand still resting against his chest, mouth swollen and hair mussed, “Did you hear that?”

“What?” He asks, dazed, and he can’t help but get distracted by her weight on top of his, the mark he left along her ribs-

“Someone’s coming,” She hisses, jumping off him, “Where my clothes?” She wails, and finally something clicks into place and he’s on his feet as well, trying to think of a place for Clarke to hide-

“Under the bed,” He says as she scoots into the tiny space, still stark naked, and now glaring at him, “I’ll get your clothes in a bit, okay?” He says through gritted teeth, sliding back onto the bed and pulling up the covers just as the door slams open.

“There you are,” Murphy says, striding in, “What’s up with you? Miller has been looking for you all day.”

He grunts, burying his face into his pillow, hopes he sounds convincing when he moans, “Sick.”

“You were fine yesterday,” Murphy says, laying a hand on his forehead (what a motherly asshole) while Bellamy tries to swat him off, “Is it the flu?”

“I don’t know,” He whines, turning over, forcing Murphy to walk over to the other side, away from Clarke, “Throat hurts.”

He sighs, weary and exhausted, “Fine, stay up here if you want. I’ll bring dinner up for you if you’re still feeling shitty tonight.”

“Thanks,” He says faintly, digging his nails into his palms so he wouldn’t burst out laughing, “Soup, please.”

“Sleep, asshole.” Murphy grumbles, dimming the lights before ducking out. Bellamy holds his breath, waits until he hears the familiar rumble of the portrait swinging open, before he pushes off his sheets.

“Clarke?”

She groans, tumbling out from beneath the bed, her hair a mess. He stifles his laugh in lieu of helping her up, brushing lint off her thighs.

“Your carpet chafes,” She says, all accusatory, “And John Murphy is actually a good friend. Huh. Never thought I would ever say that.”

“Neither would I.”

She leans over to kiss him again, tongue tracing his lips, hand resting possessively against his neck. He deepens the kiss, slides his hand down to her thigh when she pulls away, smiling sweetly.

“You know, this wouldn’t have happened in the Slytherin dorms.”

He scowls at her, nips at her lip, “Oh yeah, princess?”

(It does, and Bellamy had to hide under the sofa in the common room for a whole hour before Clarke rescues him. It’s the worst.)

**(3)**

The transfiguration classroom is blessedly empty when he pulls Clarke in, swinging her up on McGonagall’s desk so he can kiss her again. Bellamy hasn’t seen her in three days- with the hubbub of exams and lessons, meeting up was impossible- so when he spots her in the corridor, alone, he pretty much drags her to the nearest empty classroom to make out.  _What?_  He misses her, alright?

She giggles at his enthusiasm, the sloppy slip of his mouth against hers, the way he grabs at the hem of her shirt. “I take it you missed me?” She says in between kisses, wrapping her thighs around his waist as he groans.

“Yeah, the last few days have been hell,” He says against her skin, pulling off his own shirt smoothly when she struggles to get it past his arms.

She makes a face, leans down to bite at his shoulder, “Sorry. Didn’t want to risk it when my mom was here.”

_“What?”_

She sighs, tangling her fingers in his hair, “She’s on the board for the Ministry of Education, so she came over to invigilate this years O.W.L.S and N.E.W.T.S.” Bellamy racks his brains, tries to remember if there had been anyone that resembled Clarke- the same blue eyes, or the distinctive shade of her hair- but he comes up short.

“We,” She says haltingly, “We don’t get along. If she knew we were doing this, she would-”

“Put a stop to it?” He finishes, trying to ignore the twisting sensation in his gut.

She nods, cupping his jaw, “She doesn’t think I should date  _anyone_ , and that I should focus on my studies,” She drones, in what he assumes is a poor imitation of her mother’s voice, “When I was into this guy from Hufflepuff, Finn?” He stares at her blankly, and she groans in frustration, “See? Anyway, she got him expelled. That’s why I can’t tell anyone about-”

It’s a serious matter- she’s confiding in him about her past, her family- but he can’t help it, he has to say something, “We’re dating?”

Clarke gapes, “Only if you want to,” She says finally, stumbling over her words, “I mean-”

“I want to,” He says, brushing his lips over her knuckles. She positively beams at that, leaning in to nuzzle his neck and he can’t stop smiling, teeth bumping into hers when they kiss, her forehead resting against his.

“I would have asked you out a long time ago if I’ve known it would make you this happy,” She says, amused, pressing a kiss against the corner of his eye. It’s warm and full of affection, a far cry from their earlier trysts, and he reciprocates by tickling her sides, making her shriek.

He’s trying to unclasp her bra when he hears a flurry of footsteps, Professor Mcgonagall’s familiar bark, the squeak of the floorboards by the classroom-

“Go by the back,” Bellamy huffs, pushing her towards the door while he tries to locate his shirt. He catches a glimpse of her blonde hair slipping out of the door, just as the door swings open, revealing a bunch of second year hufflepuffs and one very disgruntled professor.

“Bell!” He hears Octavia shriek, hand over her eyes, “Gross! Where’s your shirt?”

“It appears that I have misplaced it,” He says brightly, trying to ignore Professor McGonagall’s disapproving look, “Oh, there it is.”

He shoves it on roughly, trying to tune out the high-pitched giggles and a unimpressed sniff, “Have a good class, O.” He manages, sliding past the professor, who backs away from him as if he’s contracted lice, before hurrying down the corridor, trying not to blush at the eruption of laughter that follows him.

(“Poor baby,” Clarke coos when he tells her about it, sulking, but she makes it up to him after, so all is good.)

**(+1)**

The one time he gets her bra off without her help, (look, clasps are  _tricky_. He broke one of hers before and he got the silent treatment for a week) he loses it.

“I put it right there,” He mutters, as Clarke pulls at her sweater, glaring at him.

“You flung it somewhere,” She grumbles, “Bellamy, bras are expensive. And that was my favourite one.”

“If it makes you feel any better, it was my favourite too.” He mutters, and she smacks him in the head with a book.

“Sorry,” He tells her, smoothing out her hair, before pressing her up against the bookshelves to give her a proper kiss, “I’ll look around for it, I swear.”

“You better,” She mutters, smacking his chest.

He slings his arm around her, pressing one last kiss to her hair, when Miller shows up out of absolutely nowhere. He nearly shoves her into a bookcase in his haste to put some distance between them, and she shoots him a venomous look when she recovers.

“Hey Miller,” She says politely, “Don’t we have potions in a bit?”

“Yeah,” He says casually, “Was just looking for Blake.”

“Let’s go then,” He says abruptly, trying to grab onto Miller’s arm to steer him away, but his friend wiggles out of his grip.

“You misplaced something, Griffin.” He says, jerking his head to a crumpled heap on the ground, and it’s definitely Clarke’s favourite purple bra, “Better not leave it lying around now.”

Clarke blushes a violent shade of red, stuttering as Bellamy gapes, his brain scrambling to come up with something plausible-

Miller throws them a wink, smirking, “See you guys in class.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to point out that I am still accepting prompts on my [tumblr](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com/), it's just that I'll probably take a while to write each and every one of them. Please be patient with me! Thanks!


	10. honey bee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: are you still accepting bellarke prompts? if so... “i’m the superhero’s sidekick and you’re the superhero but i don’t know that and we both met on an online dating website and you look really familiar?” au (except theyre both superheroes that just super love teaming up with each other) thanks :) :) :)

She stumbles onto her own dating profile purely by chance and it’s definitely worst than she feared.

Raven is not functional in the mornings until she’s had her shower and coffee, so Clarke waits until she hears the squeak of the faucet being turned off, the soft beeping of the coffee pot. Then she goes in for the kill.

“PrincessGriffin925?” She punctuates the statement with a dramatic flourish, swivelling her laptop towards Raven, “ _Athletic_?” (She’s athletic, in the broad sense of the word, but god does she hate exercise.)

Raven doesn’t even bat an eyelid, just goes back to perusing the paper, “So how did you find out?”

“Marcy from pediatrics may have mentioned it,” She growls, “When she tried to set me up with her  _15 year old_  son.”

“Enticing, but no can do. You have a date with one Bellamy Blake tomorrow.” Raven says without skipping a beat, “He has  _freckles._ ”

“My nights are indefinitely occupied,” Clarke adds hastily, folding her arms over her chest.

“Clearly,” She mutters, snide, “How’s Bruce Wayne doing? Has he assembled the avengers yet?”

“Wrong universe. Also, you’re the worst.”

Raven grins, all ferocity and charm, “Don’t you know it.”

_________________________

Look, Clarke didn’t set out to become a vigilante. She just sort of falls into it.

She saves a girl from being mugged the night of halloween, mask on, and it’s enough to land her on the front page of the newspaper the very next day. She gets three twitter accounts dedicated to her, and  _the royal flush_  as her catchy moniker. (She hates it, but that’s what you get when you save someone while dressed like a princess.)

It’s a pretty slow night- she brings a teenager in for petty theft, another for jaywalking because he mouths her off when she’s lecturing him on road safety- and she’s halfway home when he finds her, grease paint smeared messily over his face, smug smile in place.

“Princess,” He says, grinning, giving a mock bow, “Turning in so soon?”

“I still did better than you,” She jeers, nudging him in the ribs, “What did you do today? Help old ladies cross the road?”

His smile is blinding under the street lights, hair wildly curling and damp, “I stopped someone from graffiting a wall. This prick thinks he’s the new banksy.” 

The first time they met, he had sneered a single  _princess_  and she had swung out at him, bruised knuckles and torn skin, and he sported a dark bloom against his chin for _weeks._

He had reluctantly introduced himself after, a muttered, “Just call me B,” all while she glared at him.

“Bee?” She snarked, “Like honey bee?”

“Like the letter B,” He had snapped, and that was that.

Clarke had been wary towards him, territorial (she was here _first_ ) and the following weeks had been spent one-upping and sabotaging each other at every turn. She doesn’t know exactly when they stopped working against each other, and rather, with each other, but it was inevitable. It was exhausting and draining to be constantly at each other’s throats, and they make a good team, despite their differences at first.

“You know who banksy is?” She laughs, poking at his shoulder, “You asked me what iCloud was last week.”

“It was a genuine question, okay?” He says, defensive, before adding darkly, “ _Technology._ ”

“Get with the times, grandpa.” She retorts, and he lunges for her as she shrieks, his arm sliding around her torso and lifting as his fingers mercilessly tickle her sides. He laughs against her ear, hoarse and low, and she pushes herself off him so he won’t feel her shiver.

“You’re an ass,” Clarke pants, and he laughs again. The street lights flicker on, throwing his face into sharp relief, and she finds herself greedily assessing him- the messy hair peeking out from under the hood, the way his shirt clings to his shoulders, the small scar he has on his upper lip.

It’s hard to not wonder about his identity sometimes, about the person he is beyond what she sees. She knows that he likes green tea and old books, (they once got into a violent disagreement on e-readers) ramen noodles over rice, DC over marvel. She takes everything he tells her, filing them away carefully, trying to chip away at who he really is.

“So why are you heading back so early,” He teases, “Hot date tonight?”

“Tomorrow, actually.” She tells him, and for a second she thinks that he might actually look disappointed, but then he looks back up at her, and his expression is carefully blank. (She puts it down to a trick of light.)

“Well, you should go get your beauty sleep then,” He says, lips quirking up to form a small smile, “Will I still be seeing you tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow,” Clarke promises, and she gets a quick glimpse of teeth, perfectly even and straight, before he turns the corner.

She doesn’t get much sleep that night- Raven has Wick over, and they’re obnoxiously loud- so when her alarm goes off a mere two hours later, she’s cranky and one step away from cancelling.

To add insult to the injury, Bellamy Blake is ten minutes late.

She drums her fingers against the counter top irritably, takes another measured sip of her coffee. Clarke could just up and leave, really, but she promised Raven that she would give this guy-

“Hi,” He’s breathless and sweaty, but as promised, she gets devastating freckles and arms the size of tree trunks, “Clarke right? I’m really sorry, I was caught in traffic.”

“It’s fine,” She manages, and his answering smile is strangely familiar, “Do you want to grab a drink?”

“It’s okay,” He says, sliding into his seat, “I actually don’t drink coffee.” She arches a brow, and he adds reluctantly, “My sister set this up.”

“As did my roommate,” She says dryly, “So at least we have that in common.”

Conversation is easy, natural and Clarke would have been enjoying herself if she wasn’t plagued with a constant sense of deja vu, of maybe having seen his face elsewhere, of knowing him from someplace.

She chalks it up to his charisma- one of those people who never fails to make others feel at ease, comfortable- until the light hits his face, and she sees the scar.

Her breath catches in her throat, and in that instant, she sees him. In the sharp angle of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the divot of his chin. She closes her eyes, tightening her grip on her coffee cup, his voice suddenly and achingly familiar.

“Clarke?”

Bellamy’s staring at her, concern etched over his features, and she forces a smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t uh, catch that.”

“I have to head off for work in about ten minutes, but I was thinking we could do this again?” He says, hopeful, and the scar winks at her again, small and sickle shaped-

“It’s Bellamy, spelled with a B, right?” Her voice is a shaky burst, her hands still clenched, vise-like, around the mug, and Clarke doesn’t blame him for looking a little taken aback.

He laughs nervously, already half-out of his chair, “Yeah, as opposed to…?”

She licks her lips, nerves a tense knot pressing against her stomach, “As opposed to honey bee.”

And she thinks she can pinpoint the exact moment he realises who she is, the widening of his smile, the shaky exhale he makes when he sits back down.

“Clarke,” He breathes, grinning, and she thinks she likes the way her name slides off his tongue, the way he emphasises the  _k’s_  and rolls the  _r’s._  It’s definitely something she could get used to.

“Present,” She tells him, before waving the server over to get him a green tea.


	11. two thousand and five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: if it strikes your fancy, could you write a bellarke fic with the prompt "we're actors and we haven't seen each other since high school, when we hated each other's guts, but we've been cast as the leads in this new off-broadway play and how the heck are we going to pretend to be in love if you're still the pretentious ass you were in high school?"

**ACT I**

The interview had been going swimmingly until he mentions ‘05.

Clarke takes a deep breath, forces herself to remain pleasant, “Sorry, what was that?”

“It’s an impressive résumé,” He repeats, brow furrowed, “You got the lead in all your high school plays except for ‘05. What happened there?”

There are several things in Clarke’s life that still leaves her with a bitter taste in her mouth, acid and rust against the roof of her tongue. Kale salad, for one. The crumpled application for art school at the bottom of her mother’s trashcan is another. Rounding off the list was one Finn Collins, and of course, ‘05.

“That was the year my school decided to put on Peter Pan,” She starts, with great reluctance, “I didn’t get the lead.” She smiles tightly, resists the urge to grind her teeth.

“Right,” He says, oblivious, “I remember. I was a senior that year.” She gives a soft sound of assent, and he goes back to flipping through her résumé.

Clarke stares at his cloth-covered head, wonders how Nathan Miller- just a whole year older than her- manages to become a casting director while she’s still paying off her groceries with coupons.

“Remind me again,” Miller says, pleasant, “Who was it that got the lead then?”

She stares, has to dig her fingernails into the side of her thigh so her voice remains level, “For Peter Pan?” (Her voice wavers on the last word, finishes on something that sounds suspiciously like a shriek. Clarke reminds herself to breathe.)

“That’s right.” He says, closing her folder with a definite snap, sliding it over to her, “You happen to remember?”

It’s been five years and she still spits his name out like poison, a habit she can’t seem to shake, and she has to force his name out through gritted teeth, her fingernails making indentations on the leather strap of her bag, “Bellamy Blake.” ( _Fuck_  that guy, seriously.)

Miller doesn’t seem to react, just blinks before offering her yet another sleepy smile, “Thank you for your time.”

“You too,” She mutters, as her heart sinks right down to her impractical court shoes.

**ACT II**

In hindsight, she really should have thought this through.

When Miller emails her the job offer along with the cast list-  _Bellamy Blake_  in size 12, Arial font, bolded- is the only thing that catches her eye. He’s playing the second lead, her love interest, and the thought of it makes her stomach twist.

She should have said no, but Clarke’s three months late on rent and it’s only a matter of time before Raven gets caught for stealing all the cereal from her workplace’s pantry. So she replies with her acceptance, puts on her big girl panties, and resolves to be a professional.

It’s proving to be increasingly difficult, considering he’s Bellamy fucking Blake, douchebag extraordinaire.

He strides in, ten minutes late, and Clarke gives herself a minute to appreciate his broad shoulders underneath the tight black shirt, the slight flex of his back muscles when he drops his bag to the floor.

Then she goes right back to being furious.

“Did you seriously tell Miller to cut my solo?” She hisses, pushing him back when he tries to go pass her, “Are you just  _that_  egoistical?”

He smirks, rocking on the balls of his feet and looming over her, “Well, considering last week’s rehearsal, I just wasn’t sure that you could handle it.”

“I had strep throat!”

“You kept missing your cues,” Bellamy retorts without missing a beat, “If you can’t keep up, you get cut.”

“Funny, I don’t remember you saying that when you kept forgetting your lines last week,” She snaps.

“I didn’t _forget_ my-”

“Guys?” Maya calls out, voice quivering, “Can we start rehearsing now?”

“No,” He snaps, “I have some matters to settle with  _princess_ here-”

Clarke bristles at the familiar nickname- he even says it the same, pointed and precise, baiting- and she pushes out at him again, snarls, “Don’t call me that-”

“Enough!” Miller explodes, the room falling silent, “Both of you, work your shit out and stop disrupting rehearsals. The show is in three weeks, and if you guys aren’t  _professional_ enough to put your personal feelings aside, this production is going to be a shit show.”

He takes a deep breath, running a hand over his face, clearly exhausted, “Let’s just take five.” Miller mutters, crossing the stage and ducking through the side door. The room instantly erupts with whispers, a few glares thrown her way, and Clarke resists the urge to cringe.

She sneaks a peek at Bellamy through her lashes- expecting him to appear nonchalant, unaffected- but he looks thoroughly chagrined, eyes lowered, mouth set.

He clears his throat, nudges her with the foot of his sneaker, “You know he’s right,” He says gruffly, “Like it or not, Clarke, we have to work together.”

“I know,” She mutters, trying to keep the petulant note out of her voice, “It’s not like I haven’t been trying.”

“Have you, really?” He says, and ordinarily the statement itself would set her off, but there’s a small smile playing on his lips, tone more teasing than argumentative. She groans lightly, crossing her arms over her chest, and tries not to stare when his smile widens. (It’s a good look.)

“We should probably rehearse more,” She offers, tries not to mention that they have yet to rehearse a scene that has not ended in shouting or tears, “Especially the scenes in the final act.”

“Okay,” Bellamy shrugs, “Do you have anything on after this?”

Her initial plans had involved drowning her sorrows in a cheap bottle of wine and watching say yes to the dress with Raven, so she just shakes her head.

“Later then,” He says, shooting her a small smile before brushing past her. She shivers at the contact, tries to inconspicuously wipe her sweaty palms on her jeans.

The rest of the rehearsal goes by peacefully, and despite her nervousness, so does her one and one rehearsal with Bellamy. There’s something oddly peaceful about going over lines with him, sitting across from one another with his legs folded and hers lined up against her chest.

He pokes her with his foot whenever she gets her line wrong, and she gets to flick his forehead whenever he goes off key. There’s a small, purplish bruise in the space between his eyes when they’re done, and she laughs whenever she sees it, prompting him to scowl at her. (There’s no malice or heat behind it though, it feels friendly, nice.)

So when he says, “Same time tomorrow?”, she tells him yes.

**ACT III**

“Nervous?” Bellamy says, grinning as he pokes at her collarbone- where she’s especially ticklish- something he discovered during one of their numerous rehearsals. She yelps, shoots him a glare as she swings the curtains shut.

“A little,” She admits, “I can’t believe we’re here.”

“Hey,” He admonishes, grabbing onto her forearm, tracing circles against her elbow, “We rehearsed like crazy, and we have everything down pat. It’s going to be great.”

“Right,” She stutters, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against her skin. _It doesn’t mean anything,_  she reminds herself, he’s a tactile person, something she learns from their rehearsals. He likes to press his chin against her shoulder when they go through lines, rest a hand against the small of her back when they do blocking. Still, she leans into his touch anyway, presses her forehead against his chin lightly.

It’s strange how comfortable she feels around him now, how their bickering has given way to camaraderie and trust. They still fight- over the delivery of lines, on his pronunciation and  her pitch- but it’s not petty, or vindictive. It’s hard to hate someone when you understand them, when you’re on the same team working towards something together.

(She’s genuinely fond of Bellamy Blake now, sometimes more than just fond, but- no, she’s not going to go there.)

They sway awkwardly on the spot, his breath tickling her scalp, before someone calls out for them to take their places.

“Here we go,” He mutters as the music starts up, the curtains parting. She grabs his hand, gives it a quick squeeze- he returns the pressure, his hand warm and dry- and then she walks out, lights blinding and hot against the back of her neck.

Despite the minor fuckups- Jasper appears before his cue, the music starts up a little too early during her solo- they’re doing fine, and Clarke finds herself relaxing, enjoying herself as they near the end of the play.

The final scene-or the big kiss- is the only thing that weighs heavily on her mind, considering that it’s the only scene they didn’t rehearse. They had danced around the topic awkwardly, mentioned it in passing once or twice, but Bellamy never brought up practicing for it, so neither did she.

So when he cradles her face, hand sliding up to cup her jaw entirely, she has to grab onto his hip so no one can see her tremble. She wets her lips, shifts her gaze to the small freckle by his mouth-

Then he’s kissing her, soft but insistent, gentle. She loses herself in the press of his lips, reaches out to bury her fingers in his hair, to pull him closer. He moans when her nails rake against the back of his neck, settling against his shoulders.

She hears a loud, hacking cough- probably Miller, Clarke thinks, dazed- and Bellamy pulls away, lips swollen, eyes blown wide, his thumb still pressed against her jaw. Then the applause starts up, joined by the pounding of feet as the rest of the cast members join them on the stage for the final bow.

Bellamy strokes his thumb over her cheekbone, murmurs, “Later,” against her ear, and she grins up at him, tries to calm her rabbit-like pulse when he takes her hand. Monty grabs her other, and they all take a final, sweeping bow, just as the lights go off.

He makes good on his promise after, pressing her up against the side door and kissing her senseless, until Miller catches them and yells at them about maintaining professional boundaries.

“He’s probably right,” Bellamy breathes as she fumbles to untuck his shirt from his pants, laughing when he nearly falls on her, “We’re being really unprofessional here.”

“I’ve never really been hung up on that anyway,” She tells him, before pulling him down for another kiss.


	12. psychology 101

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: You just told off the class bully and woah I’m totally hot for you right now - Bellarke please? It's fits them perfectly! *-* Thank you.

He notices her- in a vague, distracted sort of way- on the first day of school.

She has her hair in one of those intricate braids that Octavia never got the hang of, name neatly printed on all of her binders and notebooks:  _Clarke Griffin._  Perfect posture, hands folded in lap primly, accent posh and clipped.

 _Princess_ , he thinks, dismissive, and goes back to outlining the course’s syllabus.

And it’s not like Bellamy actively looks out for her or anything, but it’s hard not to notice her when she always chooses to sit right next to him during classes, flashing him the same small, hesitant smile before plopping down next to him.

He catches her drawing a extremely detailed sketch of Dax- the biggest asshole of their psychology 101 class- with a fork through his eye, and he sniggers into his palm, has to play it off as a cough when she shoots him a look.

She slides the drawing over after class, slotting it in between the pages of his textbook before taking off, and he refuses to admit how charmed he is by the gesture. Bellamy only pins the drawing up on his cork board because,  _look_ , it’s a really good drawing, okay?

They mainly communicate through eye rolls, the occasional sigh, sharing a look whenever Dax says something ridiculous. Its easy, companionable really, and he’s pretty fond of her. He’s pretty sure they would be great friends outside of class too, but he’s not going to be pushy about it.

They haven’t strayed from routine for an entire semester- Bellamy’s not expecting them to- so he nearly falls over when he realises his usual seat is taken.

By fucking  _Dax._  Of all people. (Granted, he’s ten minutes late, but still.)

He slides into the seat behind her instead, jiggles the back of her chair with his foot lightly so she’ll notice him.

“I can’t believe this guy,” She hisses, shifting so he can look at her, her chin coming to rest against the edge of his desk, “He refused to budge. I told him that the seat was taken three times. And he was like,” Clarke gives a frustrated wave of her hand, eyes rolling to the back of her head, “ _Last time I checked, there was no assigned seating.”_  She says in a poor imitation of Dax’s voice, her voice cracking on the last word.

“It’s fine,” He teases, pushing at her elbows with his pencil until she slides them off the table, glaring, “Besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you breathe really loudly. It’s a distraction. I’m kind of glad this happened, actually.”

“Asshole,” She mutters, poking her tongue out between her teeth.

“Always,” He grins, and she kicks at the legs of his desk in response. “Hey, be nice.” He admonishes, straightening his wobbling desk as she laughs-

“Would you two shut the fuck up?,” Dax interrupts, his face twisted into a condescending sneer, “I thought it would be impossible to hear anything past the princess'sego here, but apparently not.”

He opens his mouth to interject, maybe throw in a few choice insults here and there but Clarke beats him to the punch, her glare icy and withering, posture ramrod straight, downright  _terrifying-_

“Funny, I could say the same about you,” She snipes, and he wonders how her anger can be sweeping and restrained all at once, heat behind her words but demeanour frosty as she launches into a full blown tirade about Dax’s constant interruptions during class time, his general laziness, his cruelty-

Bellamy’s pretty sure he’s gaping by the end of it, with Clarke coolly shifting away to face front as Dax works his jaw, arms folded across chest, petulant but speechless.  _Holy shit._

Clarke Griffin, a badass. Who would have thought?

It’s strange how much anger suits her though, he thinks, still slightly dazed by the entire encounter. Her cheeks are tinged pink, hair escaping from its tight braid, eyes fixed resolutely on the clock. He runs a palm over his face, tries to push away the image of how ridiculously hot Clarke looked when she was chewing Dax out. (Is this a  _kink_? Oh, god.)

She’s on her feet the minute the bell rings, shoving her books haphazardly in her bag while Bellamy dithers, because he should say something, right? Yeah, he should. It’s only polite, and-

“Can you believe the nerve of him?” Clarke snarls, nearly taking his eye out when she makes a frustrated gesture with her hands, “That selfish  _asshole._ ”

“We should talk about this over coffee,” He blurts, and he wishes that he could take it back the minute the words leave his mouth because she’s looking at him like he’s crazy-

“I thought you would never ask,” She says finally, grinning widely as she loops her arm through his.

(As it turns out, angry Clarke makes for some pretty awesome foreplay. Bellamy’s pretty sure it’s a full blown kink, at this point.)


	13. onions have layers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bellarke AU: Clarke's a princess trapped in a tower. Finn is a prince and wants to marry her, so he blackmails Bellamy (the best knight of the kingdom) into rescuing her (''Shrek'')

It begins, like most fairy tales do, with a princess.

Fairy tale is a stretch, really. It’s more of a cautionary one. He tells Octavia a different version of the story though, likes to alter it so the princess has a happy ending, and if not happy, well, at least a hopeful one.

Bellamy thinks he’ll tell her the truth when she’s older: the story of their neighbours, once prosperous, now a ruined kingdom, and also of the slain king as well as the princess. Some say she survived, and she’s still languishing in her tower, guarded by a fearsome dragon.

He sees the castle sometimes, especially when they’re training in the highest tower- a red smudge in the distance, flag with the symbol of a Griffin smudged with dirt, tiles of the roof smattered with blood- Miller likes to look out for the dragon, but they never see it.

“There’s no dragon nor is there a princess,” Bellamy always tells him, “It’s just a story meant to warn the kids. Everyone died when Arcadia was wiped off the map.”

Miller will shrug, declare, “Well, I think they exist. I may have seen the dragon’s tail, once.” And there was no point trying to persuade him otherwise, so Bellamy usually shrugged it off. None of the other knights or adults he knew believed in this theory either, and so it remained a cautionary tale, told to naughty children in the dead of the night or recounted to travellers from other lands.

Then Finn Collins finds him, and it’s not just a story anymore.

“Prince Collins,” He says warily, sliding his sword away, “What can I do for you?”

“I hear you’re a great knight,” Finn says, “My father says you killed the beast that was plaguing our castle.”

“It was a feral possum,” He says, and it’s a constant struggle to stay polite towards Prince Collins considering he’s an idiot, “Not much of a feat.”

“But still,” He says, all falsely jovial, and Bellamy really, really hates him. Not because he’s a prince, but mostly because he’s selfish and irresponsible.

“So what is it you need from me?” He mutters, and at his incredulous expression, Bellamy hastens to add, “Prince Collins.” (It’s absurd because not even the king requests to be addressed in such a manner constantly but, well. Bellamy thinks maybe the prince is just trying to compensate for something.)

“I need you to help me rescue the princess from Arcadia. I wish to marry her.”

“And… You’ve spoke to her?” He says, trying not to let his disbelief show.

“No, but I’ve seen her. She has long golden hair-”  _No one actually has golden hair,_  Bellamy thinks irritably, and if this isn’t a testament to Prince Collin’s idiocy, he’s not sure what is. And so he tunes out as Prince Collins rambles on about the phantom, beautiful princess and the dragon and he could be home by now, cooking for Octavia-

“Prince Collins, I’m afraid I can’t assist you in this matter. Maybe it’ll be more advisable if you talked to the king about this.” He interrupts.

“I’m afraid only you can help me, Sir Blake.” He says mildly, “Considering the delicate situation about your, ah, sister.”

At first Bellamy thinks he’s heard him wrong- it’s not possible, he can’t know, no one knows of Octavia but him and Miller- but he’s looking at him, all smug and superior, and his mouth is dry as cotton, his palms sweaty at the thought of the knights storming his house, pulling Octavia from her room-

“My sister?” He croaks, tries to even his breathing, “I have no idea-”

“You know  _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” He says, looking distinctly unruffled, “Tell me, do you know about the one child policy of this kingdom?”

But he can’t speak, can’t move, and so Bellamy just stands there, trying to remember how to swallow as Prince Collins strides up to him, voice low and menacing, “You’ll rescue the princess for me, and bring her here. Or I expose and  _execute_  your sister. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” He manages, staring down at the ground speckled with dirt and mud and grass stains-

And it’s only when he’s left, dramatically slamming the door behind him, when Bellamy remember that he forgot to address him yet again.

__________________________

It takes nearly an entire day to get to Arcadia, and so Bellamy has to leave Octavia in Miller’s care. It sucks, mostly because he has never left Octavia alone before, not since his mother died, and the thought of leaving her behind makes him antsy.

“But how did Collins find out?” Miller mutters, frustrated, as Bellamy packs his things, “You know I didn’t tell him, right?”

“I believe you,” He says wearily, and he does, because if there’s anyone in this world left that he trusts, it’s Miller. “Just look out for her, alright?”

“You know I always do.”

It’s pretty awful- he has to camp along the forest line and it rains, so’s he cold, wet and miserable- but at least he manages to refill his water canteen. He sets out again when the rain slows to a drizzle and by the time the sun sets, he sees the castle turrets peeking out in the horizon.

There’s no dragon looming up at him, at least not yet, and the castle is dilapidated, crumbling. Something crunches and breaks under his boot as he makes his way towards the castle and he doesn’t stop to look. (He’s certain it’s bone- animal or human- he doesn’t want to know.)

It’s cold inside, drafty, and he’s not afraid. There’s nothing here but carnage and ashes and he’s never been afraid of the dead. Octavia fears them; ghosts and hauntings and things that go bump in the night. “Human nature is scarier than any one of those things, O.” He told her. (She still doesn’t get it. It’s a good thing, he supposes.)

The floor beneath him is wet, and at first he puts it down to the rain, but when he nearly slips going up the stairs he realises it’s blood. Slick and sticky between his fingers, fresh. His hand instinctively goes to his sword, drawing it, and then he hears the roar.

It’s humongous, with inky black scales, and for a second it doesn’t move, just sizing him up-

Then he feels a knife at his throat, hears a low voice by his ear, “If you hurt Raven, I’ll slit your throat.”

“Raven?” He says stupidly, trying to jerk his head back to look at his captor, but the pressure on the knife only increases.

“Drop the sword,” And it must be the princess, he realises, letting his sword clatter to the ground. The dragon and the princess, and they’re real.

The first thought that comes to mind when he looks at her is,  _her hair isn’t golden._  The second is,  _Prince Collins is a idiot._ He can see the appeal though- she’s beautiful, even with her dark blonde hair matted against her neck, blood staining her fingertips.

She takes his sword and crosses the room, reaching up to stroke the dragon gently, and it shifts, and suddenly it’s a human girl, bleeding from her leg. He can’t help the strangled noise that leaves his throat because honestly,  _what the fuck._

“I told you not to exert yourself or the stitches will rip,” The princess chides, probing at the girl/dragon’s leg.  _Raven_ , Bellamy remembers.

“I’m fine,” She grumbles, “Leave it.” She’s eyeing Bellamy now, looking deeply distrustful, “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

“Not yet,” The princess mutters, turning to face him. “Why are you here?”

Then it clicks, all fits together, and he stutters, “You’re staying here out of your own free will?” She glares, and he quickly adds, “Out of your own free will,  _princess_?”

“It’s Clarke,” She snarls, “And yes, I am. This is a self-imposed exile. So if you came here with some twisted notion that you’re  _saving_  me to marry me-”

“Not me,” He says hurriedly, “I’m doing this for Prince Collins.”

“I have no idea who he is and I don’t care,” She says crisply, “I just want to be left alone. Go before I set Raven on you.”

“Look, princess. I can’t leave without you, if you don’t come back with me, he’ll-”

“He’ll what?” She snaps, “Execute you? I don’t care. I’m sick of all these stupid knights traipsing all over my castle, thinking I need to be rescued from some great evil monster who’s in fact, protecting me-”

“He’ll kill my sister,” He shouts, and even the thought of it makes him sick to the stomach, because it’s Octavia and she’s his responsibility and he can’t let her down. And he’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but there’s a glimmer of understanding in her eye, almost sympathetic. He must not be the only one who notices, because the dragon, Raven, scowls and says, “Oh hell no. Clarke. This is a bad idea.”

“You can bring her here, and she can stay with us. We have food, water, books. Company,” She says quickly, and reddens, and he realises that she must be lonely too, “I suppose you could visit as well.” She adds a tad grudgingly.

“Is this place safe for her?” He says dubiously, taking in the cracked pillars, the shattered windows.

“We’ve cleaned up the other wing,” Raven snaps, “Who do you think we are, heathens?”

He chooses to ignore her, looks at the princess instead, “And what do I tell Prince Finn Collins about you?”

“Tell him I’m dead,” She says simply, “Slain by the dragon made to imprison me.” Then easy as can be, she hacks off a portion of her hair with his sword, thrusting it out at him.

“Proof,” She says as he takes it from her, his fingers brushing against hers and he doesn’t miss the way she shudders at the contact, her entire body relaxing after-

“We have a deal, then?” He asks, and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes flicker over him either, appraising and curious.

“We have a deal.” She says, and this time they shake on it.

__________________________

He moves Octavia the very next day.

The prince is convinced enough, having seen the hair and the blood Bellamy collected, but his days as a knight are probably numbered. He packs all his belongings too, just in case he needs to make a quick getaway.

He visits Octavia every other day after his duties, and this is probably the happiest he has seen her. She tells him about the books she read, and the friends she made: Clarke and Raven, and there’s Monty, the kitchen boy and Indra, the gardener. She regales him with tales of their great adventures around the castle and she gives him books from their library, picks out things she knows he’ll like.

And Bellamy supposes he makes friends as well. He likes Raven, with her sharp tongue and her wit and he likes to watch her tinker with pieces of scrap metal, hands constantly in motion. She was born a shapeshifter, she tells him, and she used to own a armoury before.

“Before what?” He asks.

“Before most of Arcadia burned to the ground.” She says flatly, hammering at a particularly stubborn sheet of metal.

Monty is shy compared to the others, quiet, but Bellamy likes sitting with him to think, or to read. He’s a comforting presence, easy and natural. He doesn’t try to force conversation, which Bellamy appreciates.

Indra is trickier- intimidating and protective of his sister to boot, which pisses him off initially- but he’s resigned to the fact now that his sister has someone else to look out for her. She’s surprisingly gentle, too, tending to the vegetables and gardens with single-minded focus and dedication.

He likes the princess best though. She’s smart, really smart, and his favourite thing to do is challenge him on the books he read, on the things he’s seen. She’ll trail after him in the castle, yelling at the top of her lungs about how wrong he is, and she always insists that he call her Clarke and yeah, he never listens.

She likes to draw him too, her fingers smudged from charcoal, hair pinned away from her face. She gives a drawing she made of Octavia to him, and he keeps in folded neatly in his pocket, smoothing it out constantly so it doesn’t crumple. (He’s tempted to ask her to draw a self-portrait so he can carry her around with him too, but he doesn’t have the nerve.)

He’s grown fond of her, he really has, and it’s difficult to remember sometimes that she’s a princess and he’s a knight. It’s especially hard to remember when they’ve been fighting and her face is just inches from his, her breath fanning against his face, and he could just close the distance between them and kiss her, but she’s a princess, she’s  _still a princess_ and no, he can’t.

“Why do you choose to stay?” He asks her one day, and he can feel her stiffen by his side. She used to shy about contact, to avoid his gaze or pull away when he tapped her on the elbow. But after months and months, she likes to snuggle by his side, or rest her chin against his shoulder when he reads. It’s nice.

“It’s still my home,” She says, finally. “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“It’s not a bad place to live.” He tells her and she smiles, leans back into his touch.

“Yeah.” She agrees, “Not a bad place to live at all.”

(It all comes to a head one rainy day in November, when she kisses him, hard enough to bruise, her fingers digging possessively into the skin of his neck before she tells him to stay. He does, because well, who is he to deny his princess?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very weirdly pleased by my shrek reference and if you didn't catch it LOOK HARDER


	14. parental guidance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Hey, if you're taking more small ideas for "KHTKTNO" how about some Bellarke in canonish here all the 100 survivors keep calling them Mom n Dad, and the adults are all creeped out and confused. Maybe Abby thinks Clarke is preggers, maybe Kane thinks Bellamy brainwashed them, maybe a parent see their kid call Bellarke MomnDad and thinks wierd stuff too?

The first time it happens, it’s an accident.

Monty trips over a tree root, bone ripping through skin, bloody and brutal. Miller carries him home, the well-worn material of his beanie wrapped around his ankle as he cries.

Clarke sets the bone back in place, tries to ignore Miller as he paces the length of the tent, glaring and spitting at her whenever Monty so much as cries out.

“You’re going to be okay,” She tells him, pushing sweaty strands of hair off his face as he lolls about, half conscious and murmuring nonsense.

“Thanks mom,” Monty mumbles in response, and that’s pretty much the beginning of the end.

Fox doesn’t say it as much as she spits it, wrenched from in between her teeth, meant to insult more than anything. It’s accompanied by a dramatic stomp of her foot and a cold shoulder that lasts two days, until Bellamy drags her over to the med bay and forces her to apologize for being disrespectful.

“Wasn’t so hard now, was it?” Bellamy adds, smug, as Fox scowls, pushing past him and muttering darkly about being ‘such a dad.’

At this point, Clarke’s not sure what terrifies her more: the fact that they could be on the brink of total anarchy, or being the unwilling adoptive parents of a brood of delinquents.

_The latter_ , she thinks grimly, when Jasper whines, “But mom!”, when she refuses to let him test a few of Raven’s experimental grenades,  _definitely the latter._

It’s surprising how unaffected Bellamy is by it though, how easily he takes it into his stride. It must be a big brother thing, she thinks, suddenly and stupidly fond of him. He catches her staring and she flushes instinctively- sometimes he looks at her, and, well- and she hurries over, sliding into the seat he saved for her.

“I can’t believe how nonchalant you’re being about this,” She grumbles, and he grunts in response, shaking his hair out of his eyes.

“They’ll stop when the ark comes down,” He says abruptly, picking at his food moodily.

And she can’t help but wonder what he’s really bothered about: that the arrival of the ark will offset the fragile power balance of the camp or the reconciliations that he never got to have, never will have. Everything Bellamy has belongs on the ground now.

A part of her itches to pick at it, to pull at the wealth of emotions and thoughts Bellamy buries, unravel him and learn him. But now’s not the time, she decides. Conversations like these are best conducted in the half darkness of her tent, drowsy with sleep over half-made plans, lowered guard and careless tongues.

So she chooses to tease him instead, digging her elbow into the taut skin by his ribs, “You’re going to miss this, Blake?”

It does the trick because he laughs, nudging her knee with his, “Definitely not. This has been absolute hardship, Griffin.” He says mock solemnly, and she has to bite her lip to stop from smiling because honestly, what a dramatic  _idiot_ -

“The prime years of my life- hey!” He yelps when she swoops down to steal a chunk of meat from his plate, chewing triumphantly as he glares.

“I would have given it to you if you had just asked,” Bellamy mutters before sliding a sizeable chunk of meat onto her plate, the charred portion, just how she likes it. She makes a squawk of protest at the meagre amount left on his place, deliberates slipping him an extra roll when he’s distracted-

“Mom and dad are being nauseatingly flirty,” Murphy announces, the ensuing cooing and whoops picking up in volume when Jasper declares, “Give mom a kiss, dad!”

She groans, resists the urge to bury her face in her hands- they’re like wild animals in that way, pouncing whenever they sense weakness (Clarke will  _not_ give them the satisfaction)- and so she gives a haughty tilt of her chin instead, a bored eye roll.

They start jeering instead, a cacophony of stomping feet and chanting until Bellamy barks, “Latrine duty for two weeks, Murphy!”

“But Jasper-”

“Don’t bring me into this!” Jasper yelps, wilting under Bellamy’s glare. “I’m sorry?” He offers meekly, ducking behind a sniggering Monty whose leg is propped up against Miller’s thigh.

“One week for Murphy, one week for you.” Clarke interjects, “Fair enough?”

“I don’t see why I have to do latrine duty when I was being _honest,_ ” Murphy grumbles, only falling silent after Raven gives him a pointed jab in the stomach. He scowls at her, muttering something under his breath and the spell’s broken, everyone else resuming their conversations and dissolving back into their separate groups.

She sneaks a peek at Bellamy- back to picking at his food, nonchalant- and she can’t help but notice the red tips of his ears, the slightly ruddy cheeks. His eyes meet hers for a split second before he drops his gaze back to his plate, cheeks colouring further.

She hides her grin behind her palm, takes a measured sip of water to clear her head. Maybe she misjudged him. Maybe Bellamy is just as affected as she is.

(It takes her three tries to get her smile under control, to the point where she has to disguise it as a violent, hacking cough when Raven looks over. It’s terrible.)

__________________________

The ark comes down and nothing changes.

It’s dropped casually in conversations, shouted throughout camp, said with equal amounts of affection and exasperation, a habit hard to break. It’s a common enough occurrence that the adults begin to notice, shooting them furtive looks and questioning glances, uneasy by this development.

Her mother is definitely one of them.

To be fair, she moves in immediately with Bellamy after the ark comes down- mainly so they can free up some space for the rest of the arkers- so it’s not unnatural for Abby to question the nature of their relationship.  _Partnership,_  she always hastens to add when Abby brings up the R word.

It’s a logical decision, a practical one, really. Bellamy often reminds her of this whenever she brings it up, her head pillowed against his chest as he untangles the snarls in her hair, grumbling about how thick it is, and why is there so  _much_  of it? “At least I remember to warm up before I do strenuous exercise,” She snaps in response, pressing down against his tense muscles until he relaxes.

So she’s not surprised, not really, when her mother asks her if she’s involved with Bellamy. The question she asks  _after_  though, that she didn’t expect.

He’s reading when she trudges back to their tent, shirt off and squinting at the book before him, blanket twisted haphazardly at his ankles. Clarke flops down next to him, nudges at his elbow so he’ll pay attention to her.

“My mother thinks you impregnated me,” She says flatly, staring up at the worn material of their tent.

“What?” He sputters, going red in the face, and she gives herself three seconds to enjoy his embarrassment before putting him out of his misery.

“Mostly because the kids keep calling us mom and dad,” She says, droll, “Not ah, because of any other reason in particular.”

“Those assholes,” He mutters, running a hand through his hair, “I told them to cut it out. I should go talk to your mom about it, right? Reassure her and maybe-”

He seems genuinely upset, distressed even, and it’s ridiculously endearing. Clarke buries her face in his pillow, muffles her laugh in it.

She only realises he’s serious when he rises from the bed, searching for his shirt, and she has to grab onto his wrist to pull him back.

“Will you stop being a complete and utter idiot?”

“I know you’re not taking this seriously but-”

She surges up to kiss him then, sloppy and messy, her fingers scrabbling for purchase against the side of his neck. He doesn’t respond, not immediately, and she stiffens, starts to pull away-

But then he’s kissing her back, warm and sweeping and gentle, his hand cradling the back of her neck as he sets her back onto the bed. She nips at his lip playfully until he groans against her mouth, pressing her further into the bed when she lets her fingers ghost over his spine. When he pulls away, his laugh is a shaky exhale against her cheek.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” He admits, nuzzling her neck as she buries her fingers in his hair, “I was just waiting for the right time.”

“Took you long enough,” She teases, and he kisses the smirk off her face, fingers playing at the hem of her shirt-

“Mom! Dad!”

The voice is unmistakably Jasper’s, accompanied by the familiar clomp of his boots and Monty’s uneven gait. Bellamy groans, dropping his face against her shoulder.

“I dealt with them the last time,” She reminds him, tapping the side of his ass with her foot, “It’s your turn.”

“Maybe if we stay quiet, they’ll leave us alone?” He says, hopeful.

She snorts, and sure enough, Monty starts calling out for them next, something along the lines of the water filtration system-

“Alright, alright.” He grumbles, grabbing at his shirt, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

He kisses her again before he goes, tongue sliding against hers, all intensity and  _want_ -

“More time for that later, right?” He breathes, pulling away, and she can’t help it, she grins, resting her forehead against his.

“More time for that later,” She agrees.

(Raven spots the hickeys the very next day, and the fallout is tremendous.)


	15. of possibilities and infinities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: bellamy ends up a single parent sometime after they land on the ground.
> 
> Did I write this because all I wanted to talk about was Bellamy with a baby strapped over his chest? Maybe. I have no shame. Anyway, grounder!Clarke and single dad!Bellamy.

He doesn’t know what he’s looking at, not at first.

In the darkness it’s nothing but a warped shadow, a spray of blood against the walls. When he steps closer, breath caught in his throat, it moves along with him, a shifting, twisting form. It feels like the beginning of a nightmare, of rust against his tongue and blood on his lips- a summary of what he’s seen on earth, what he’s learned from it.

Then it begins to cry, shrill and startling, and it’s a  _baby._

It's smaller than Octavia was, still wrapped in a blood soaked blanket, and Bellamy’s hands are clumsy when he picks it up, resting its head against the crook of his elbow. It only stops crying when he lets it suck on his finger, shushing it gently until its breath evens out, asleep yet again.

“What the  _fuck,_ ” He mutters under his breath, rocking it carefully as he surveys the land before him.

There’s nothing else he can salvage in the wreckage- it was once a village he thinks, now a semi-circle of collapsed structures, some of them creaking ominously in the wind, ready to fall- and so he peels the blanket off the baby, wraps it in his jacket instead.

Bellamy senses the presence rather than sees it, his hand flying to his gun instinctively at the creak of footfalls behind him. He’s expecting bloodied teeth and feral eyes, the face of the mutations they saw in the woods, or a rabid animal with foaming mouth and snapping jaw-

He’s not expecting a girl.

She’s snarling mouth and bruised fists, dark grease paint contrasting sharply against her eyes, extending to her temples like wings. There’s blood on her blade, the cuffs of her sleeves, a girl ready for a fight and made for war.

( _She could kill him_ , he thinks.  _She would kill him._ )

She takes a step closer and he responds by removing the safety of the gun, levelling it at her forehead. The jostling motion must wake the baby because suddenly it’s crying all over again, piercing and jarring-

She lowers her knife first, wary, her motions deliberate and unhurried, eyes fixed on the baby. He mirrors her movements, tries not to betray how uneasy this interaction is making him feel.

The girl tears her gaze away from the baby, blinking. Her voice is low, guttural, the words foreign. But Bellamy doesn’t sense a threat in them or malice. It feels like a question.

He shrugs, mindful of the baby now as it slowly quiets, “English? Do you speak it?”

She cocks a eyebrow at him, scoffing.

“Okay, clearly not.” He relents, taking a careful step towards her. The corners of her mouth are twitching, as if amused by his antics. He’s not sure if it’s a good sign.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bellamy promises, working to keep his voice level and calm. He takes another deliberate step past her, just a few steps away from the trees, the path home. She doesn’t react, merely angling her body so she’s facing him again.

“I’m going to go now,” He gestures towards the trees, feeling incredibly stupid. The smirk on her face is unmistakable now, grows when he nearly trips over his feet.

“It won’t survive,” She calls out.

He throws her a glare, swivelling back, “You said you didn’t speak english.”

“It’s not my native tongue,” She admits, and he catches a glint of teeth before she sobers, “It’ll die, you know. You should just leave it behind.”

“We’re strong enough to take care of it.” He says in between gritted teeth, and he knows it’s a downright lie, considering how precarious everything is right now. They don’t have the resources or the time to raise a baby but he can’t just let it die. He won’t.

“That’s what my heda is worried about.”

“Your  _what_?”

She makes an impatient noise, searching for the words, before speaking again.

“The commander. The uh, person in charge, as you might call it.”

Bellamy snorts, tries to reign in his disbelief, “Your commander is worried about us?”

“About your intentions.” She corrects him, eyes steely, and he’s not sure if he’s imagining how her hand seems to twitch towards her knife.

“We’re not here for a fight.” He says, soft, and that seems to placate her because he can see her visibly relax.

“She thinks your numbers could be of use to us.” Her wording is precise, careful, and there’s no doubt that she’s been considering this for a while.

“An alliance,” Bellamy nods, “That could work.”

They agree to meet at a neutral location in a week- the bridge a few miles south of camp, apparently in between the two territories- and he has to bite down the urge to laugh when she offers her hand, tiny compared to his.

“Bellamy,” He tells her, releasing her hand so he can hold the baby more securely in his arms.

“Belomi,” She says, grave and contemplative and he can’t help but laugh at how serious she appears.

“Bel- _lamy_ ,” He stresses, grinning at her apologetic expression, “What’s yours?” 

“Klark.” The words are hard, clipped, at odds with the small smile playing at her lips.

“Clarke?” He says teasingly, exaggerating the vowels and she rolls her eyes at that, mutters something in her language that Bellamy’s pretty sure means  _whatever, dude._

She’s distractingly pretty when she smiles- despite the terrifying warpaint- and it’s only when the baby starts bawling all over again when he remembers that he should go.

“For what it’s worth,” Clarke tells him, “I hope it lives.”

“It will.” He promises, and her smile this time is sad, pitying before she darts back into the depths of the wreckage.

__________________________

In keeping up with the tradition of historical names, Bellamy decides to name her Livia.

Octavia scowls whenever he calls her that, nudges him in the ribs, “Why would you inflict this on her?” She coos down at the baby, tickles her stomach lightly, “Couldn’t you have come up with something comparatively normal?”  

“Are you jealous because now you’re not the only one with a cool name?” He retorts.

It’s been a week since he’s brought Livia home and it’s a lot better than he expected. While Monty’s first few attempts at baby formula were disastrous, Liv takes to the latest formula quickly. She has already gained some weight, feels a little sturdier in his arms.

Raven builds a crib, lays a threadbare t-shirt as a blanket until Octavia sews a new one for her out of a pair of Miller’s pants. (Miller is, justifiably, furious.) He learns to recognize her cries, to differentiate them. There’s crying when she’s hungry, crying when she wants a cuddle, crying when her diaper needs to be changed. (They take turns washing out the cloth diapers that Octavia fashions, and Wells is the only one who doesn’t complain.)

It’s exhausting and all consuming, at times frustrating, but he learns to live with it anyway. He hands Liv over to Octavia whenever he needs a breather, arms outstretched and wide grin every time she holds her. There’s Miller too, grudgingly settling Liv in his lap during dinner but fond all the same.

Raven makes him a sling for whenever Liv gets in one of her moods, inconsolable unless he holds her. It’s made of seatbelt straps and soft fabric, feels sturdy when he tugs on it.

“Damn right it’s sturdy,” She says when he tells her so, pinching at Liv’s cheeks lightly, “Kangaroo Bellamy. Never thought I’d see the day.”

She gets into one of her infamous moods the day of the negotiations, so he puts her in the sling, head resting against his stomach. She snuffles against his shirt, contented, and drifts off to sleep.

“Please tell me you’re not bringing Liv,” Wells says, pained, when he approaches.

“As opposed to leaving her here?” Bellamy says pointedly, sliding his rifle over his free shoulder.

“Any of the others will be thrilled to take her,” Wells says, eyeing the sling apprehensively, “Monty. Raven. Even Wick.”

“She’ll cry for me all day,” He argues, tries  _not_  to show how stupidly proud that makes him. Sure, it’s kind of an inconvenience but still. He’s her favourite. It’s nice.

“It could be dangerous.” Wells points out.

“That’s why I’m bringing my gun.”

“You’re impossible,” He grumbles, but he doesn’t stop Bellamy from leaving either.

It’s pretty hilarious actually- the looks on the grounders face when they pull up- Wells and Miller, stoic and serious. Octavia, face set and knives showing. Then there’s Bellamy with a baby in a sling and a gun on his shoulder.

He spies Clarke standing behind her commander, a stern-faced woman named Anya with dark smudges against her eyelids. She raises a brow at Liv, but says nothing. He thinks he sees Clarke smile, before she resumes a stony expression.

It’s a little tense, at first, but everyone seems to ease up a little as the discussion progresses. Bellamy tries to concentrate- he really does- but at one point, he catches Clarke’s eye and she pulls a funny face at Liv and soon it becomes a competition as to who can pull the most outrageous face and, well. He loses track.

Octavia catches him up to speed after, when they’ve all relaxed and everyone is mingling and making small talk.

“It’s a trade agreement, basically,” She says, distracted, and he scowls because he’s pretty sure she’s eyeing the hulking tattooed grounder on the left, “They’ll send some people over and they’ll teach us what they know, and in exchange we teach them what we know.”

“So our technology for their skills?” He presses.

Octavia rolls her eyes, pats him on his arm condescendingly, “You would have known all that if you weren’t too busy flirting with your grounder girlfriend.”

“That’s uncalled for,” He says to her receding back as she flits away, laughing.

He’s contemplating looking for her when she slides up to him, a little shy, her war paint smudged and faint. He can see her eyes more clearly now, catalogues the mole she has above her upper lip.

“How’s it doing?” She asks, fingers grazing the side of the sling before pulling away.

“Her name’s Liv,” He says, grinning, before correcting himself, “I mean Livia. Fuck. You can hold her if you want, you know.”

“It’s fine,” She says quickly, but she does run her fingers along Liv’s feet, making faces and blowing raspberries so she’ll laugh.

“So you’re going to be around a lot,” He says, casual, prays that she doesn’t pick up on the hopeful note in his voice.

“Yeah.” She says, nonchalant, and they spend the next few minutes discussing possible things to trade, their families, Liv. It’s nice, easy almost, despite her the slight language barrier. Clarke takes long pauses sometimes, formulating the words, and she stumbles on some of them. It’s cute how frustrated she gets after, but he’s never going to admit that. Not to her face, at least.

“I’ll teach you some trigedasleng when I come over,” She says just as they’re about to part ways.

“Counting on it.” He says, and he’s definitely not counting on a goodbye kiss, but she does it anyway, sliding her hands under his jaw and pressing a lingering kiss against his cheek, dangerously close to his lips.

He smiles about it the entire time, refuses to elaborate when Octavia bugs him on it.

“Your dad’s hiding something from me,” She says reproachfully, dancing her fingers behind Liv’s ear, making her burst into peals of giggles.

“It’s between me and the kid,” Bellamy tells her instead,  _and Clarke_. And he’s smiling stupidly again, the feeling in his chest small, but hopeful. It may not lead to anything, nothing at all, really, but it’s something to look forward to, he thinks. Something to hold on to. (It’s a nice feeling. A good one.)

Octavia takes his hand, the other resting against Liv’s back, and he lets her lead them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently moved on tumblr so send me prompts over [here](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/)instead.


	16. attachments

It’s been five weeks and she still signs off on all her emails with  _best regards._

“Why does it bother you so much?” Miller mutters, scrunching up several sheets of paper in his fist, probably yet another memo from Jaha. “She’s polite, get over it.”

“Is she even human?” Bellamy hisses, sneaking a glance over at her. Clarke’s face is carefully blank, poised and composed as she taps away at her keyboard, faint strains of music trickling from her headphones.

Five weeks, and he barely knows  _anything_  about his new colleague, except for several unimportant details that he hoards away, saves for future reference. One time, she mentions that she likes jelly doughnuts and he accepts the statement a tad grudgingly, pushing down at the feelings of awe because  _fucking finally._  Bellamy now knows  _one_  thing about the elusive Clarke Griffin.

“She could be just shy,” Miller says, clearly exasperated. “You may be overreacting here, have you thought about that?”

He snorts, jabs away at his keyboard ferociously. It shouldn’t bother him- it really shouldn’t- but it’s something about the tight set of her shoulders, the way she ducks away when they gather by the break room. The wary glances, the tight smiles, demurring away from after-work drinks or lunch breaks.

It’s intriguing, if not slightly annoying. He doesn’t plan on pushing her to open up or forcing a friendship, but it’s hard to feel like a part of a team when a player chooses to sit out constantly.

His inbox notification goes off, and he has to suppress the scowl at the carefully worded, entirely too polite email he gets from Clarke about ordering office supplies.

The _best regards_  at the end of it feels like a taunt, a challenge almost. On impulse, he fires back a curt reply, signs it off with an insolent  _take it easy, bro._ Adds in a poop emoji for dramatic flourish. 

Miller pegs him in the head, snickering, as Bellamy powers down his desktop. He flips him off, kicking out at his legs before sliding his chair back to his work station.

(He sneaks a quick peek at her before he leaves. He thinks her eyes meet his briefly in the reflection of the desktop screen, but it could have just been a trick of light.)

__________________________

Jaha saddles him with a new client pitch set the very next day, so he barely gets to skim through the emails in his inbox, replying to the urgent ones, before going back to charting graphs and crafting press releases.

There’s a new bunch of emails waiting for him after everything has died down, so he settles himself with a cup of coffee before starting on them. It’s the usual suspects; Jasper with his spam emails, Octavia’s obligatory sisterly email- basically pestering him about how he’s doing everything wrong with his life- along with a commentary on several cat videos to which he replies with a single  _cute._

Then there’s Clarke reply from yesterday, buried between his correspondence with Monty and Raven’s bad puns of the week.

It’s stupid, really, that they’ve resorted to sending emails when she sits directly across him. Bellamy can see wisps of her blonde hair from where he’s sitting, the red pencil she slides through her hair. Her brows are furrowed, eyes narrowed at something on her screen and he tears his gaze away before she can realise that he’s staring.

He takes another measured sip of coffee, steels himself, before opening the message.

Clarke’s reply is perfunctory, cordial and he scans through it dutifully, tries not to wince at the clear dismissal at her tone. Right. He hovers his mouse over the trashcan, poised to delete-

Then he catches sight of the signature, the smirking face emoji, the ironic (he hopes)  _sure thing homeboy._ He can’t help it, he grins, wide and stupid, drumming his fingers against the keyboard when he realises that she’s signed off with a C.

It feels like a victory, somehow. Albeit a small one.

Bellamy hits the reply button, littering his email with the worst spelling errors known to man, reminiscent of when Octavia went through her MSN messenger phase and everything was a jumble of animated capital letters and tilde symbols. You know, for aesthetic.

He surveys his finished work, forces himself to send it off before he can chicken out. Her email notification is a loud chirp, sudden and loud in the small space and he busies himself with a report so he won’t think about her reading his email.

Her laugh is surprisingly throaty, a nice raspy sound, and he flushes, catches a glimpse of the upturned corners of her mouth before she ducks her head down, her nails tapping against the keyboard.

Conversing with her is easy after that, and he finds himself sending her emails after work too, just his usual grumbling about traffic in the city and kids setting shit on fire in the trashcans by his complex. She mostly replies with sarcastic bird memes that he’s not greatly opposed to, sometimes sprinkled with random tidbits and anecdotes about her life.

He learns that she lives with her roommate, Raven. That she really wants to be an artist, that this job is helping her pay off her student loans. He learns about her family, her relationships, receives an extraordinary amount of pictures of her cat. Sometimes pictures of her too, which can be distracting. She sends him a few goofy selfies once when he was at the gym, hair messy and smile bright, loose shirt sliding over her shoulder and exposing a bright red bra strap. (Bellamy nearly falls off the treadmill at that and it’s _humiliating._ )

They’ve been trading horrendously bad pickup lines for weeks now, sometimes accompanied with biting comments about Jaha sent during inopportune moments- meetings, briefings, client pitches- and he’ll try to catch her eye, trip her up so she’ll burst out laughing. (He considers it a victory when he sees her biting the inside of her cheek, lips trembling with the effort of staying quiet.)

Bellamy fires off a quick one before he goes to bed that night-  _hey I’m looking for treasure, can I look around your chest?_ \- followed by a lecherous emoji face, a winky emoji face so she’ll know he’s kidding, a blurry photo of his torso.

He wakes up to a 167 messages, none of them from Clarke.

Miller whoops when he shuffles into the office that morning, glaring, and Raven makes a ‘Congratulations On The Sexting’ banner, hangs it over his cubicle. (“It wasn’t even sexting,” Monty adds, exasperated, and yeah, Bellamy decides that Monty’s pretty much his favourite person in the office, ever.)

He lasts until 10am before the relentless teasing and Raven’s lewd comments sends him scurrying to the safety of the janitor’s closet. Thankfully, Jaha is off on some golfing trip and Clarke’s nowhere to be seen, so he cracks open a window, lights a cigarette and starts grouchily going through his reports.

He’s deliberating if he should send Clarke a thoughtful, handwritten,  _I’m sorry I CC’ed the entire office and humiliated you_  card when the door bursts open, catching against the towel he’s stuffed against the crack.

Bellamy swears, stubs out the cigarette with his shoe, tries to straighten out his shirt. It’s a pretty futile attempt though, and he blinks moonishly in the half darkness, smoke stinging his eyes.

“Clarke?”

“Miller told me you were holed up here,” She says, wry, unwrapping the scarf around her neck, “Sorry I was MIA this morning. Had a minor family emergency.”

“Oh,” He says, voice cracking slightly and she takes a step closer to him, fingers brushing up against his.

Bellamy’s not sure what he’s expecting- a lot of grovelling, maybe some begging if necessary-

“So we should probably exchange numbers, if we want to avoid a repeat of yesterday.” She adds, grinning, her hands bunching up the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, and he can’t help it, he laughs, a shaky exhale against her cheek.

“Definitely,” He agrees, nodding feverishly, and he should probably be worried by how much he  _likes_  this girl already, but well.

(It turns out sexting is a _lot_  more convenient when he has her number.)


	17. looking for sunlight (or the headlights)

She’s nine when Bellamy first finds her.

He’s fourteen, sharp where she is soft, dark when she’s fair. Her clothes are crisp, collar starched, while the hems of his jeans are stained with mud. She sniffs tearfully, pokes at the hole at his kneecap. There are leaves in his hair and his smile is feral, wide.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice at odds with everything else, gentle and soft and kind. She likes the cluster of freckles on his elbow, the smudged glasses perched crookedly on his nose.

“Hiding,” Clarke says, pulling her knees up to her chest. She could tell him about her parents, the way they fought in whispers and silence, the crumpled heap of blankets by the sofa and the imprint of her father’s head against the pillows. But she doesn’t.

“You know,” He whispers conspiratorially, “There are better places to hide. I know the really good ones.”

Clarke wipes at her eyes, pulls up her knee socks. “Show me,” She demands, and when he grins at her- smile crooked, teeth chipped- she feels warmth slide down to her toes.

His name is Bellamy- the boy next door, her neighbour and best friend through the years after- and true to his word, he shows her where all his hiding spots are.

Bellamy keeps his cigarettes in the pockets of his winter jacket, condoms under the loose floorboard. His mother’s perfume in his sock drawer, swaddled between three pairs of wooly socks, a crumpled photo of his father in between the pages of  _The Greek Myths._  


Clarke knows all of his hiding places, likes to turn them over in her head, draw a pattern from them.

She knows all of his hiding places, the crevices where he tucks away his secrets, the fears buried under soil and dirt. So the only explanation for finding the letter is this: it was never meant to be hidden.

Bellamy’s moving the couch when she finds him, curls plastered against his forehead, shirt damp with sweat. She watches him for a minute, spine of the notebook cutting into her palms when he lifts it again, shifting it a inch to the left. Her mouth goes dry at the flex of muscles, the jut of shoulder blades under his shirt.

“What do you think?” He says, breathless but also smug, “I moved it  _five_  times, but I think I finally got it right.”

“Perfect,” She croaks, and he smiles, brief and vague, before he diverts his attention back to the unopened boxes littering the floor.

He’s distracted today, this she knows. Bellamy’s been planning the move for months now, working at it with a kind of intensity and single minded focus that she always wish she had. He sends her pictures of colour swatches during work, sometimes kitchenware or rugs punctuated with multiple question marks. It’s stupidly domestic and pathetically endearing.

(She draws the line at the fucking  _pinterest_  board he makes, refuses to contribute to it. Look, Clarke gets it. Sharing an apartment with your best friend is a pretty big deal, but she has her limits.)

Clarke settles down next to him, folding her legs before she slides the notebook into his lap.

He stares at her, blank, fingers fanning through the thin pages absentmindedly. Bellamy’s handwriting is a thick, angry scrawl, his doodles sprawling and infinite mazes. She stops his hand when they come to the page, resting her palm over his.

She feels the exact moment he tenses, the twitch of muscles under skin. When he finally looks up at her, his smile is wry, his body tense. She wraps her fingers around his palm, squeezes reassuringly.

“I wrote this for a creative writing class in college,” He says, rubbing at the back of his neck, “I never, um.” Bellamy pauses, thumb pressing against the bones of her wrist, “I never thought you would see it.”

“It’s not like you went to great lengths to hide it,” She says, almost accusatory, and he chuckles at that, relaxes.

“The best hiding spot is often in plain sight,” He muses, closing the book. His palm is warm and rough, dry. She can feel his heated gaze against her skin, the unanswered question on his lips and there’s something building in her chest, large and looming and hopeful. Clarke looks away, exhales shakily into her sleeve.

“I wrote it a long time ago,” Bellamy says brusquely, the change in tone jarring and she jerks her head back up to look at him, stunned, “I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable-”

“Hey,” She says, grabbing ahold of his chin so he would look at her, “That’s not it.”

His breath is warm against her skin, making her shiver. He’s clenching his jaw, teeth sliding and grinding over one another, and she presses down onto the muscle until he relaxes, sinks into her touch.

“Do you still?” She fumbles over the words, her tongue lolling and clumsy in her mouth, “I mean, do you, are you-”

“Does it matter?” He asks, voice hoarse, his thumb still forming maddeningly slow circles against her skin.

And before she can chicken out, before she can change her mind, she slides into his lap and kisses him.

His lips are as soft as she has imagined in the safety of darkness, burrowed under her blankets and half drowsy with sleep. (He’s always been the subject of her fever dreams, skin on skin,  _I love you’s_ whispered against her jaw, her neck.)

She twines her legs over his hips, deepens the kiss until he groans into her mouth, hands tangling in her hair. His other hand rests against her spine, crushing her to him, and she laughs when he begins to tip backwards, her laying on top of him.

Clarke twists their fingers together, biting at the lazy smile edging against his lips until he growls against her skin, nipping at her bottom lip, her chin.

She can’t help the goofy smile that stretches across her face after, tapping her nails against his chest lightly, “You wrote me a love letter.”

“Did not,” Bellamy mutters, reaching up to kiss the corner of her eye, a butterfly kiss against her collarbone, “It was a part of my  _assignment._ ”

“You’re a romantic, Blake.” She teases, dancing her fingers over his hipbone.

“Maybe,” He finally concedes, pulling her down to kiss her again, all breathless laughter and bumping teeth. She adds in plain sight to his list of hiding places, resting her fingers against the taut skin of his stomach as he trails kisses down her neck, and yeah, she thinks she likes it best of all.


	18. covered in the colors

“On your  _left!_ ”

Clarke scrambles to the side a fraction too late, the butt of her gun digging into her ribs-

He slams into her, jerky and at full force, the impact rattling her teeth, a sharp jolt racing up her spine when her back hits the earth.

 _So this is what it feels like to have your breath knocked out of you,_  she thinks, dazed, before her fingers find purchase in the crevices of tree bark, pulling herself to her feet.

“Damn it, Bellamy!” Clarke snarls, pushes at his shoulder so he’ll stop looming over her, “You said left!”

“My left!” He barks, “You would have known that if you’ve just  _listened,_  instead of just charging ahead and doing whatever the hell you wanted-”

“That’s rich coming from you,” She can barely muster the energy to sneer, but she does it anyway, because that’s just who they are. Bellamy throws the punches, all scorn and vicious insults while she bares her teeth, sharpening her nails just so she can rip him apart.

(Sometimes it feels a lot more like a force of habit- pushing at his buttons, riling him up- and there are days when Clarke can’t seem to remember why she hated him in the first place, but still.)

He’s Bellamy, and she’s Clarke and they  _hate_  each other.

“Paintball, of all things. The west branch is going to fucking slay us,” Miller mutters, slumping down to the ground.

They exchange dark looks at that, because if there’s anything Bellamy and Clarke are in agreement on, it’s that the west branch is  _awful._  The last time the west branch held a training seminar that they had been required to attend, there were two fist fights and an unfortunate incident with a cactus that Jasper still refuses to speak about. (Bellamy, unsurprisingly, emerged with bruised fists, a chipped tooth and a week’s long suspension.)

“With that defeatist attitude, of course they are.” Bellamy glares, hand on hips, and Clarke can’t help the groan that slips from her lips because, well. She knows what’s coming. One of Bellamy’s legendary, and unfortunately, excruciatingly long pep talks. She’s really not up for it today.

“Maybe we’ll have a higher chance of winning this if you guys stopped yelling at each other,” Monty says, mild, as he settles down next to Miller, gun slung carelessly over his shoulder.

“That has nothing to do with it,” She blusters, scowling.

“Considering that you’re both the team leaders, it has everything to do with it.” Miller mutters, running a palm over his face, “You guys can’t agree on anything.”

“We’ll work something out,” Bellamy snaps, running his fingers through his hair and dislodging a stray leaf, “Get the others to head back. We’ll discuss strategy tomorrow morning.”

Monty shrugs, pulling Miller up with him fluidly. Clarke smirks at their tangled fingers, drops Monty a quick wink as he flushes, tugging Miller away.

“What are you smiling about?” He grouches, jostling at her elbow lightly.

“Monty and Miller.” She says, grinning, “They’re adorable.”

Bellamy scoffs, disdainful, “Didn’t know you pay attention to office gossip,  _princess.”_

“Why do you have to be so difficult all the time?” She demands, spinning on her heel to face him. At least he has the decency to look shamefaced at that, dropping his gaze to her shoes, and so she forces her voice to stay level when she adds, “Let’s just have a civil discussion, okay?”

“Fine by me.” He says, and they make their way out of the park in silence, boots crunching against wet grass and leaves.

It’s tough going, at first. It’s hard to push down the instinct to snipe at him whenever he disagrees with her, and she can tell that he’s making a concentrated effort to hold his tongue whenever she points out the flaws in his plan. It gets easier after, and she’s not sure if it’s because they’re both exhausted or it’s because they’re actually working towards something  _together_ for once.

“Think we did it?” He asks, scrutinising their game plan, drawn hastily in marker and filled with various scribbling.

“We’re going to beat the west branch to the ground,” She says, and his answering grin has her stretching her hand out for a high five.

“Are we actually getting along?” Bellamy laughs- and it’s a nice sound, she thinks, one she would like to hear again- so when he slings an arm over her shoulder, companionable, she lets him.

“Miracles will never cease.” Clarke adds dryly, “It’s like we never hated each other.”

“I never  _hated_ you,” He says, amused. “Disliked, maybe. Loathed, slightly. But I never hated you.”

“Dare I ask?” She says, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

“I thought you got the job because of your mom,” Bellamy says, easy, “But that was before I saw your work. And,” He makes a face, tugging at his shirt collar, “You labelled your tupperware. That was a little weird.”

She gapes, smacks at his shoulder while he yelps.

“All this because of my  _fucking tupperware_ -”

“Hey!” He catches her hand, laces their fingers together effortlessly, and her words die on her tongue. His palm is dry, callused, comically larger than hers. She can feel the rapid beat of his pulse against the bones of her wrist.

Clarke drags her gaze away from their interlocked fingers, lets it drift over to his jaw, the scar by his mouth. He wets his lips, fingers tightening over hers, and for a split second, she lets herself consider that he might actually kiss her-

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll stop making an effort to antagonize you from now on, promise.” He smirks, voice hoarser than usual, and she shivers, tries to play it off with an eye roll.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Clarke mutters, turning away so her hair hides her flushed cheeks.

He drops her off at her apartment shortly after, muttering about drinking lots of fluids and getting a goodnight’s sleep. It’s pretty endearing, and she has to stop herself from doing something ridiculous, like kissing him on the cheek or something.

The office is surprisingly subdued the next morning, atmosphere tense as they troop into the conference room for one last strategy meeting. Lincoln’s gone through six cans of red bull, and Clarke’s pretty sure Jasper has a nervous twitch in his eye. The banner that Raven made hangs crookedly over the projector, _fuck the west branch!!_ painted in a bright, garish red.

Even Bellamy seems nervous- he’s more fidgety than usual, pale too- his freckles stark against his complexion. Clarke straps on her safety vest, makes sure she throws a few glares to the west branch picking their guns, before she makes her way over to Bellamy.

“How are you holding up?”

“Good,” He says through gritted teeth, shooting Anya a venomous glare when she looks over, “Ready to win.”

“So I know we’re a shoo-in to win this thing,” She adds, “So what do you think about upping the stakes?”

He cocks his brow at her, resting his elbows against his knees, “What did you have in mind?”

Clarke shrugs, tries to appear nonchalant despite her sweaty palms, the desperate pounding of her heart, “If we win, I’ll take you out to dinner.”

Bellamy grins at her, sudden and teasing, “As friends?” He says, sly.

“Whatever.” She says coolly, has to bite at her lip to keep from smiling when he takes her hand.

“Deal,” He says, squeezing her fingers gently, and Clarke’s pretty sure she could get used to holding Bellamy Blake’s hand.

(They win by a landslide.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! So I'm doing a [halloween fic celebration](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/post/130777301998/celebrate-halloween-with-premium-italian-ham), where I'll be taking halloween prompts and writing them all in the weeks leading up to the 31st. Y'all can send me prompts [here](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/ask) and I can't procrastinate or let it languish in my inbox, basically. x


	19. jacket

Clarke’s been living at Ark complex for three months now and she’s pretty much adapted to her apartment’s quirks. **  
**

The refrigerator door never seems to be able to stay shut for one, and she has to jiggle her keys with extra force to unlock her front door. The microwave is temperamental, emitting threatening sparks every time she leaves anything in for more than three minutes, but well. No place is perfect and she’s on a budget, _okay?_

(“It’s a shithole,” Raven had declared flatly, wrinkling her nose at the peeling wallpaper and the stains on the carpet. “It has character,” Clarke had argued, and that was that.)

Sure, she has to place a brick by the refrigerator and time her showers just so she can bathe in warm water, but she’s pretty much used to it, at this point. It’s like having a cranky, elderly house guest that she’s stuck with for life. Or well, until she can afford better housing.

She doesn’t take into account the fire alarm.

It’s the second night in the row that the fire alarm has gone off, and there’s something especially humiliating about standing by the sidewalk in pair of sleep shorts sporting questionable stains.

“Fucking Mrs. Walters,” She mutters under her breath, shooting a dark look over at the darkened window of apartment 5B, where she’s pretty sure she’ll find a pan of brownies left in the oven, burned to a crisp. (Who _bakes_  at midnight?)

“What do you have against Mrs. Walters?” A voice says, amused.

Clarke blinks, taking in the ruffled hair, the even summer tan despite the subzero temperatures. She has always known that 6A was attractive but she’s never been more acutely aware of it than now, with his ears pink from the cold and jacket stretching over his broad shoulders.

“Nothing,” She manages, suppressing the tremble that courses through her body as the wind slices at her bare arms.

“Oh come on,” He grins, before lowering his voice conspiratorially, “You think she set off the fire alarm?”

“I  _know_  she set off the alarm,” She mutters, scowling when his grin widens, “It isn’t funny, I have things to do-”

“So, enlighten me Holmes,” He interrupts, angling his body towards her, “What’s your theory?”

“She’s always burning the brownies!” She explodes, only remembering to lower her voice when one of her middle-aged neighbours throws her a scandalized look, “This is just ridiculous-”

“You’re being a little unfair,” He says, mild, “It could be anyone else in the building.”

Clarke huffs indignantly, narrows her eyes when he meets her gaze, “You don’t believe me?”

“It’s a possibility,” He muses, “But I’m really hoping it’s 6C. That asshole keeps stealing my papers and expects me not to notice.”

“6C is so old he wears adult diapers.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a thief. I can read the news online but the print edition has the comics-” He stops, flushing, and she can’t help but laugh at his caught out expression.

“Oh, the  _comics_ ,” She grins as he glares down at her, his scowl deepening when her giggles escalates to full blown laughter.

“I  _like_  calvin and hobbes,” He says tightly, crossing his arms over his chest, and she bursts into another round of laughter at his petulant expression, the stubborn jut of his bottom lip-

Clarke doesn’t realise he’s staring until their eyes meet, her laugh tailing off at the heat of his gaze, the way his eyes rove over the curve of her neck, the slant of her jaw. She arches a brow in question, tries not to show how charmed she is when he ducks his head, rubbing the skin against his neck, clearly embarrassed.

“Stop laughing,” He mutters, still firmly looking away, jostling her bare arm lightly, and she shivers in response, either from the contact or the cold, she’s not sure-

“Hey,” His expression has lost its teasing edge, replaced with concern, “Are you cold?”

“I’m not doing too badly.” She tries, but he’s already unzipped his jacket, draping it over her shoulders and Clarke shoots him a grateful smile, pulls up the zipper carefully with stiff fingers.

It smells faintly of soap and fabric softener, sleeves extending way past her fingers and swamping her tiny frame, but the material feels unbearably soft under her cheek when she pulls the hood up.  

“I’ll give it back when we get inside,” She manages before the crowd begins to move, jostling him forward, the top of his head barely visible through the horde.

“Keep it,” He calls out, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Wait!” She yelps, pushing against the current, ignoring the exasperated tutting noises and snarls, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Bellamy,” He nods, and she’s close enough now to notice the small divot in his chin, the bobbing of his throat when he sweeps his gaze over her, from the messy twist of her hair to the holes in her socks. It doesn’t feel critical or assessing, just simply  _looking_  and it sends a surge of warmth all the way down to her toes.

“Clarke Griffin,” She tells him, wincing when someone elbows her in the ribs, kicks at her ankles to speed up.

And she can barely make out anything in the semi-darkness, but she can feel his grin, make out the glint of teeth barely illuminated under the flickering street-light.

“I’ll see you around, Clarke Griffin.”

She smiles, wide and stupid and hopeful, the weight of his jacket impossibly warm against her skin, “I’m counting on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> answering one last prompt before my [halloween fic celebration!](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/tagged/prosciuttoe-halloween-bash) for which you should send me prompts for, if you want to. <3


	20. best costume goes to..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annndd this marks the start of my halloween fic celebration, yay!
> 
> prompt: "you’re going to be at the halloween party and you’ve won best costume for the past 3 years but this year I am wearing the best costume ever if you defeat me I will eat my - wait you actually look really cute when did you turn hot what the fuck um"

There were three things that remained constant in her years of celebrating halloween.

One, her presence at the annual Green-Jordan joint halloween bash was mandatory- a show of  _support_ , Monty often stressed- despite her hatred for the cramped, windowless basement that made her hair stick against the back of her neck, the taste of cigarette ash lingering for days against the roof of her mouth.  

Two, she would always weave intricate crowns in her hair and smudge flecks of gold against her lids because it was tradition at this point, really, to go as some kind of princess. There had been the swan princess one year, princess mononoke the other and her favourites from her childhood years.

Three, she always lost best costume to one, very undeserving, Bellamy Blake.

(“Aww Clarke, it’s not like anyone takes it seriously,” Jasper slurred, rattling the ballot box at her as she glared, arms crossed over chest. “It’s more of a popularity contest, to be honest.” Monty had chimed in, as if expecting her to  _just let it go, already)_

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” Raven mutters, exasperated, jostling her elbow until Clarke reluctantly accepts the lukewarm cup of beer from her.

“Over my dead body,” She growls, taking a measured sip before scanning the crowd. No sign of dark messy curls, not yet anyway, though there are boys with his smile- wide, lazy grins hinging from cheeks- all cockiness and charm.

“Maybe he decided not to show up this year,” Raven adds, hopeful, “Then maybe, you can stop campaigning so hard and actually enjoy yourself for a change.”

“I  _always_  enjoy myself on halloween.”

“Bull,” Raven scoffs, steering her to a quieter corner of the room so they can talk without having to scream over the music, “You spent the whole of last year staring daggers at Blake instead of making out with that girl who was really into you. She asked for your number and you blew her off to yell at  _Bellamy._ ”

“He yelled at me about the historical inaccuracy of my costume. What was I supposed to do, just take it?”

“If the alternative was so you could make out with a hot girl, yeah, definitely.” Raven snorts, chugging down the remains of her beer before making a face. “Now would you  _please_ go out there and have some fun instead of skulking around looking for him?”

“Fine.” Clarke concedes, tries not to groan when Raven adjusts her princess peach crown before pushing her out onto the dance floor. She’s swallowed up by the crowd almost instantly, into the press of bodies and oppressive heat, sweat-slick skin and bumping hips-

Someone elbows her in the ribs, nearly sending her tumbling if it wasn’t for a pair of hands that grab onto her hips, anchoring her so she staggers instead, her cheek bumping against leather and armour-

Clarke blinks up at the roman centurion, the hint of matted dark curls under the helmet, the flex of his biceps when he releases her, jaw working as if to hold back a smile.  _Holy shit._

“Princess,” He says, dipping his chin, “Didn’t see you earlier, so I assumed you decided to drop out of the running.”

“You wish, Blake.” She retorts, swallowing audibly as he raises his arm to wipe off the sweat gathered on his brow. Granted, she hasn’t seen him in a year- Bellamy went to school in another part of town, and there hadn’t been any other reason for them to cross paths- but he never used to be quite so  _broad_.

He grins at her, sharp and sweeping, different from the boyish smirks he used to throw her way.

“I liked last year’s costume better,” He adds, ducking to her height so she wouldn’t have to strain to hear him, “This one feels a little weak.”

She scoffs, flicking at his armour with her pointer finger and trying not to betray how impressed she is by the hard planes of his stomach, “I’ll have you know that princess peach is a iconic character. She-”

“All I’m hearing is that I have the contest in the bag this year,” He interrupts, “I really didn’t expect you to make it so easy for me-”

“You’re despicable.”

“Only to you.” Bellamy points out, his smile saccharine sweet, close enough for her to see the bob of his throat, the flicker in his gaze as he glances down to her mouth.

It feels like a challenge somehow, and Clarke isn’t one to back down from anything, especially  _not_  from Bellamy Blake.

So she takes another step closer, sliding her hand up his forearm (she can feel the twitch of muscles under skin, and she feels strangely satisfied to have elicited it from Bellamy) to level her lips against his ear.

“Bring it on, asshole.”

His full-bodied shiver makes her grin, and she makes sure she runs her nails against the inside of his forearm before she pulls away. The heat in his eyes makes her mouth go dry.

Clarke’s not sure who initiates it- who breaks first- but she’s surging up to kiss him again, her fingers clumsy as she grabs onto his jaw, bumping into the plastic of his helmet as he nips at her lower lip, sweeping his tongue against hers.

She whimpers when he pulls away, breathing ragged against the side of her neck.

“Room,” He insists, sliding his hand down to the small of her back to steer her through, his other hand encircling her wrist.

“Wait!” She yelps, planting her heels back firmly, “They’re going to announce best costume any minute now-”

His next kiss is chastising, his voice rough against her cheekbone, “I really,  _really_ couldn’t care less.”

She groans, dancing her fingers against the side of his neck until he kisses her again, reaching down to bite at her jaw playfully after, sliding down to the hollow of her neck-

Bellamy Blake is a really,  _really_  good kisser.

“Fine,” Clarke relents, lurching onto her tiptoes to run her teeth over his earlobe before letting him guide her up the stairs.


	21. midnight train

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "It’s the last train of the night and we’re the only two people in this car, and I’m 452458% sure I just saw a ghost."

Look, Bellamy likes taking the last train of the night _most_  of the time. **  
**

He’s always guaranteed to get a seat for one, and it’s quiet enough for him to read without putting on his headphones. Sometimes he lies back and stretches out his legs if there’s no one in his compartment because it’s a long ride, and hey, might as well get comfortable right?

But there’s something about his commute tonight that feels strangely off. Bellamy buries his face into the warmth of his jacket, tries not to flinch at his reflection bouncing off the glass. He hates how pale he looks under the wanly flickering lights, the pronounced dark circles that no amount of sleep can get rid of. (Octavia thinks he’s been taking way too many shifts at the diner but Christmas is coming up and he _really_  needs the money, okay?)

He wasn’t even supposed to be working today but Harper’s out with the flu and he knows for a fact that drunk Halloween revelers have the tendency to leave hefty tips, so he had jumped at the chance. He’s pretty sure he can’t feel his legs anymore and he looks like hell, but at least he’s getting some good money out of it.

Bellamy scowls at his reflection, flips it off childishly.

And that’s when the lights go out, plunging him into total darkness, the train giving an almighty jerk before coming to a standstill.

He swears under his breath, scrambling for his phone tucked into the pocket of his jeans. The air-conditioner’s blown out and everything has gone oddly still. The only thing he can hear is the sound of his own ragged breaths, the scrape of nails against the denim of his jeans when he finally wrestles his phone free.

The phone screen illuminates the darkened cabin, slippery in his palms, and he sends light skittering over to the other end of the cabin as he struggles to right it. For a second he catches a glimpse of blonde hair and bloodied clothes and pure, unadulterated panic seizes at his throat.

_An axe murderer or a demon or a ghost-_

Bellamy hits the sleep button on his phone, rising from his seat shakily as he pats his pockets, cursing himself for leaving the pocket knife Octavia gave him last Christmas back home as the sound of footsteps grow louder.

His hands close around a small sachet, and in a brief moment of clarity, he remembers the episodes of  _Supernatural_  in Miller’s netflix queue-

He doesn’t so much throw the packet of salt, more like, flings it across the compartment before backing away, but he hears the satisfying thwack of it hitting home, a muffled yelp of pain-

“What the  _fuck?_ ”

Bellamy’s not exactly an expert at all things supernatural, but he’s pretty sure ghosts or demons don’t swear. Or if they did, it would probably be a lot more dramatic than this. It could still be an axe murderer though, so he makes sure he backs up a few more steps before hitting the power button on his phone.

The girl glaring up at him is definitely not a ghost. Or a demon. He would say axe murderer would still be in the running if she wasn’t wearing scrubs but she is, and there’s a tiny purple bloom right by her eyebrow, where he’s pretty sure the salt packet hit her.

“Did you just throw salt at me?” She growls, rubbing at the bruise furiously, “Who does that?”

“Well why didn’t you say anything?” He yelps, “I thought- I assumed-”

“I had my headphones on until you blinded me with your phone,” She scowls, folding her arms across her chest, “I didn’t know anyone else was in this compartment. Then I saw you, so I started walking towards you and-”

“I threw a packet of salt at you,” He finishes lamely, wincing when she shoots him yet another withering glare, “Sorry?” He offers and she groans, slumping down onto his seat.

Bellamy perches on the seat next to hers, switches on the flashlight function on his phone so he can see her better. She’s pretty, he realises, in a way that all contrary things are. Her hair is a tangled clump by her neck, makeup smudged to her temples, but she carried herself with a kind of grace, all sure movements and confidence as she turns over to look at him, sweeping a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Can I borrow your phone?”

“Yeah,” He says hastily, handing it over to her, “There should be enough battery to last you a few calls but-”

“I was going to see what games you had,” She interrupts, her thumb sweeping over his screen with practiced ease, “Since we’re going to be stuck here for a while.”

“Uh-”

She snorts, the corners of her mouth lifting, “All the games you have here are all trivia related.”

“They’re educational.”

“I bet.” She mutters, pulling up  _QuizUp_. It’s a multi-player trivia game, which makes it that much better according to Bellamy’s standards. She’s surprisingly competitive, groaning every time he pulls ahead and cheering raucously when she gets a question right. At one point she pumps her fist so enthusiastically she nearly dislodges his phone.

It’s pretty cute, honestly, and at this point, he’s flirting with her the only way he knows how; ineptly and with little finesse. He mostly just teases her for getting the dates of the american civil war wrong interspersed with observations about the various stains on her scrubs.

They play until he’s down to his last 20% before she quits the app, insisting that he conserve it for making calls and using it as a flashlight.

“You just did that because I was going to win.”

“Hey, I was being practical,” She insists, her legs nudging against his playfully, “We could be stuck in here for  _hours_  more. You should probably call your girlfriend so she doesn’t get all worried.”

He blinks, “My girlfriend?”

“The girl on your wallpaper.” She says, conversational, though he can’t help but notice that she’s not meeting his eyes, “She’s pretty.”

“Mhm,” He adds, biting back the grin that’s threatening to show on his face, “It runs in the family.”

Her mouth drops, gaping, before she recovers, flushing prettily, “Sorry. I just assumed.”

And Bellamy’s pretty sure the air conditioning has come back on, cool air brushing against his heated skin as he sneaks another peek at her. The laces of her sneakers are colored with neon highlighter, her cheeks still a little ruddy and downright adorable-

“You could make it up to me,” He teases, bumping his fingers against hers as the lights begin to flicker, “You could give me a name.”

He doesn’t miss her wide grin, the light of his phone’s flashlight bouncing off her teeth before the lights come back on, leaving him squinting at the sudden brightness.  

“I can do better than that,” She tells him.

(He gets her number  _and_  a date next Saturday with one Clarke Griffin. It’s definitely one of his better Halloweens.)


	22. you, on my mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "Person A wants Person B to wear partner costumes with them but they aren’t really dating (yet) and they get a lot closer over it" + Bellarke x

To be fair, Clarke  _probably_  should have unveiled their costumes with a lot less dramatics. **  
**

“In case you couldn’t tell,” Bellamy adds dryly, “This is me, expressing my violent objection towards this entire charade.”

“And this is me, reminding you, that you promised to do this.” She says pointedly, levelling him with a glare as he scowls in response, slumping back into his chair.

“I can’t believe you picked these costumes,” He mutters, pushing his glasses up impatiently with the crook of his elbow, “These are terrible partner costumes.”

“Enlighten me then; what exactly were you expecting?”

Bellamy grunts, attention already diverted back to the stack of papers by his desk, “I don’t know. Maybe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or something, or one of those salt and pepper shakers.”

“Condiments,” She says with exaggerated slowness, disbelief coloring her tone, “You want us to go to Lexa’s costume party as  _condiments."_

It’s getting increasingly difficult these days, she thinks, as he nods distractedly in response to her query, to reconcile the Bellamy she knew back in college and the Bellamy she knows now.

He used to be split knuckles and blood gleaming between teeth- the boy who fought like he had something to prove- electric current running through his body, a live-wire tucked under skin. Temperamental, unpredictable even. But she thinks that the current bursting under his skin has lessened to a low, quiet hum now, something manageable, containable. (Clarke likes it better this way.)

“Please?” She wheedles, resting her chin against the crook of his shoulder, his warmth radiating against her cheek. “You wouldn’t really let me go to Lexa’s party alone, would you?”

“I just might,” He mutters, grumpy, but there’s fondness in his tone too. He taps her cheekbone with his fourth finger absentmindedly, a constant, thrumming beat as she reads over his shoulder.

“So how long have we been supposedly dating?” Bellamy says, mild.

“Let’s just say three months,” She grins, his stubble scratchy against her jaw when she shifts, “Lexa’s going to flip. She  _hates_  you. It’s going to drive her nuts.”

“Just hand me the costume before I change my mind.”

She gives him a smacking kiss on the cheek, beaming. “You’re the  _best,_  batman.”

“Just go get changed already,” He says, rolling his eyes, his face still oddly flushed when she gleefully thrusts the garment bag into his lap, already donning her catwoman mask.  

Bellamy struggles a lot more with his costume than she does- either from reluctance, or maybe because he’s just inept at this sort of thing- and it takes her a considerable amount of effort to shove the cowl over his head. (“It  _pinches_ ,” He whines, and she flicks him on the forehead until he shuts up)

The party is pretty much underway by the time they get there, crowded and disorientating. The door’s been propped open with a carton of beers to accommodate the overspill, and they have to fight their way through the corridor to cross the threshold into the apartment, her palm sweaty and sliding out of his as she scrambles to find purchase-

Bellamy stops abruptly in his tracks and she collides into the solid warmth of his back, squawking as pain flares up her arm.

“ _Bellamy._ ”

“Sorry,” He says hastily, rubbing soothing circles against her skin before he slides his palm down to rest against her hipbone. “Okay?” He asks, and at her nod, pulls her close so she’s pressed up against his side.

“At least I won’t lose you this way,” He says, gruff, and she has to suppress the shiver that runs up her spine at the rumble of his chest under her cheek.

They don’t find Lexa right away, so they settle for mingling with her friends instead, at least the ones that Clarke likes. There’s Lincoln, who expresses surprise at her new-found relationship but seems genuinely happy for her, and even Anya claps her on the back approvingly.

It gets easier to relax as time wears on, and she even finds herself enjoying the attention, the warmth of Bellamy’s skin against hers. His lips graze her ear at one point and it takes her a considerable amount of effort to calm down. For a brief moment, she thinks that he might have done it on purpose- but he’s perfectly composed throughout the entire exchange- wholly unaffected by their proximity.

And it’s not exactly  _hardship_  to be standing this close to him, but, well. It’s difficult not to be affected when he’s looking at her like that, all soft and adoring, like she’s something impossible and precious all at once. Clarke has always wondered- idly, and certainly not on multiple occasions- what it would be like to kiss him, to be the subject of his infamous charm and intensity.

She takes a deep breath, pushes the thought out of her head.

All in all, he makes a pretty convincing boyfriend, she thinks, bleary from the heat and the alcohol- playing idly with the ends of her hair, dancing his fingers down the length of her arm- constantly touching. The contact isn’t unfamiliar, but the heat that blooms under her skin whenever his touches linger is something completely different altogether.

“Hey,” He says, concerned, brushing aside the sweaty strands of hair stuck against her neck, fingers resting against her collarbone, “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” She croaks, her eyes resting on the sheen of sweat against his upper lip, the slightly fuller bottom lip. She reaches up, taps the curious scar by the side of his mouth, traces the soft skin of his philtrum-

“Clarke,” It comes out as a shaky exhale against her fingers, “Are you-”

“Stop talking,” She manages, before pushing up from the ground and slotting her mouth against his.

It’s awkward at first- bumping noses and clacking teeth, her hand cramping from cradling his jaw- before they settle into a rhythm, her hands sliding around to twine against the back of his neck while he explores her mouth leisurely, thoroughly.

She sighs, sinking further into his warmth, the urgency from before dissipating. He kisses her again, chaste and brief and  _sweet,_  before pulling away, panting against her cheek.

“Think that convinced her?” Bellamy says, quiet.

Clarke stares, blank, uncomprehending, until she catches sight of Lexa’s familiar braids vanishing into the crowd.  _Oh._

She swallows, forces herself to smile, still breathless from the kiss, “Hopefully. Uh. You did good, Bell.”

His eyes flit over to her swollen mouth, the reddened skin by her chin that his stubble had rasped against. “You too,” He says, voice rough - absolutely wrecked- and the weight against her chest lifts.

Clarke slides her hands into his, cataloguing the fluttering of the muscle by his jaw, the widening of his pupils. No,  _definitely_  not unaffected by it all, she thinks, deliberately digging her nails into the soft skin of his wrist, his breath hitching in response.

“Let’s go cause some trouble, Blake.” She grins, pulling him into the crowd.


	23. ouija

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ""Ouija board thinks we should date" and Bellarke? :)"

To be honest, Bellamy’s never been all that crazy about halloween. Well, considering that the last few years of celebrating the holiday had ended in unmitigated disasters. **  
**

Octavia swears that it’s not _her fault_ \- for the love of god, Bellamy, she was  _provoked-_  but it still doesn’t change the fact that they spent their halloween in a jail cell last year, with him sporting a shiner that refused to fade even after three weeks. (“Well, you shouldn’t have tried to hold me back!” She retorts, before launching into yet another tirade about the nerve of that bartender.)

Jasper actively denies the whole thing- swears up and down that he was  _pushed,_ because Monty was high, not  _him-_  but it doesn’t change the fact that Bellamy was in a cast for weeks and Miller had to give him a sponge bath.

At this point, he doesn’t want much from halloween this year, just some peace and quiet and maybe a good movie on cable because he hasn’t gotten around to setting up netflix yet. (Octavia keeps nagging at him to do it but it’s such a hassle and he’ll never admit it, but he’s kind of an idiot when it comes to technology.)

But the sight of Clarke Griffin, dressed in nothing but her underwear while she parades around his apartment definitely shoots that horse in the face.

“Uh,” He stutters, dropping his keys in the bowl that Clarke had made for him after that one pottery class, “Did we have plans that I forgot about?”

“Hey!” She says, brightening, and it’s an effort to focus on her face, and not the sway of her breasts when she shifts, “I found something fun we could do together. You know, other than sex.”

“Pray tell, what might that be?”

Clarke beams, patting the spot on the rug across her, “I found your old ouija board.”

“So, you rather contact spirits instead?” Bellamy says, apprehensive.

“Well, we can’t keep having sex all the time.” She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest, which really, really doesn’t help his situation. At all.

Okay, it’s not like he actively went out of the way to  _seduce_ Clarke Griffin or anything like that, he just sort of falls into it. They had both been buzzed the first time, all sloppy kisses and fumbling hands, and never, never again, Clarke had insisted, her head pillowed against his chest while he stroked her hair. (It lasted for a week before he had her pinned against the bathroom door, keening while he sucked marks on her neck.)

They’ve kept up this arrangement for months now and it’s a pretty ideal situation if he would say so himself. Except for the fact that he’s a little bit in love with Clarke.

Alright fine, stupidly in love with her. He probably should tell her about it, at some point of time, but he’s honest to god terrified, and if he loses her friendship over it, well. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“Hands on the planchette,” She orders.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” He grumbles, but complies anyway, setting his fingers on the edge.

“Spirits,” Clarke says, a tad too dramatically, wiggling her eyebrows when he shoots her an exasperated look, “How many of you are in this room?”

The planchette stays stubbornly still, the only sound being the tapping of the rain against the windows.

“This is stupid.”

“Give it some time,” She hisses, shooting him a glare when he makes a face. “Bellamy! Take this seriously.”

“Well, it’s not like anything is happening,” He retorts, sinking back onto his haunches as he thinks mournfully of the leftover pizza in his fridge, his stomach grumbling in response.

“Maybe I’m just not asking the right question,” Clarke says, thoughtful, “Hey spirits, is there anything you would like to say to us?”

Bellamy’s half tempted to move it, just so they can get this over and done with when something jerks the planchette to the other side of the board.

“Cut it out!” He yelps, wiping at the sweat gathering against his temple with his shoulder.

“It’s not me,” She insists, surprisingly calm despite the jerky movements of the planchette circling the board, “I think it’s working.”

He squints down at the board, tries to make out the jumble of letters the planchette rests against, “What the hell is it even saying?”

“D-A-T-E. Date. Huh.”

“Real funny,” He manages, swallowing hard as he lets go off the planchette, the piece skidding over the board and falling to the ground, “Of all the spirits to encounter, we come across a matchmaking one.”

She stays quiet- long enough for him to start worrying- before she adds, “Well, it’s not like it’s a completely absurd idea.”

_“What?”_

Her cheeks flush at that, the color travelling down her neck, and Bellamy’s pretty sure he’s about five seconds away from losing it-

“Clarke,” He says, slow, careful, “Are you saying that you want to date me?”

“It’s not just me,” She insists vehemently, “The spirits say so-”

He cuts her off by kissing her, hard, the board clattering off their laps as he presses down against the rug, raining kisses on her cheeks, her eyelids, the hollow of her neck-

She laughs against his neck, her chest brushing against his as she rests her arms over his back, tracing circles against his shoulder blades.

“I take it that you don’t have any objections?” She asks, a tad too innocently.

“Hell no,” He says, grinning, before ducking down to kiss her again, biting at her lip until she whimpers and runs her nails down his spine.  

And after, when they’re both sated, he asks, “You’re the one who moved the planchette, didn’t you?”

“You’re an idiot,” She says, sleepy, and well, it’s not like he can argue with that, so he just drops a quick kiss to her hair before burrowing back into her warmth. 

He can’t say he minds either way, really.


	24. hold my hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Halloween prompt! Maybe some Bellarke and friends spending the night at a creepy haunted house? + tough guy bellamy needing to hold Clarke’s hand.

In retrospect, she really shouldn’t have bought Jasper that camcorder last Christmas. **  
**

Said camcorder is currently pressed up against Bellamy’s face, and she watches with faint bemusement as he swats it away from him impatiently, scowling.

“Cut it out,” He snaps as Jasper yelps, struggling to right himself before grabbing onto Clarke’s shoulder. She could just shake him off, but it’s equivalent to kicking a puppy, really.

She just deals with it like how she always deals with Jasper: with mild exasperation and an incredible amount of patience.

“This is the worst,” Bellamy mutters, hefting his sleeping bag higher against his shoulder as he narrows his eyes at her, “This is  _your_  fault.”

“Scared?” She leers, grinning as his scowl deepens, flipping her off before he goes back to glaring at the house before them.

“Hour zero,” Monty says gravely, having commandeered the camera from a jittery Jasper, “We are now entering the premises-”

“Don’t narrate,” Raven interrupts, pushing past them and kicking the gates open with her boot, “They don’t do that shit on paranormal activity. We’re doing it exactly the same, remember?”

“Everyone on paranormal activity _died_ , Rae.”

Bellamy pales at that, and Clarke has to stifle a laugh.

“You know,” She says conversationally, falling into step next to him, “You could always back out. I wouldn’t think less of you, or anything.”

“I’m not  _scared,_ ” He insists, tightening his grip on his backpack as they cross the threshold into the house.

“Masculinity sure is a fragile thing,” She comments, dry, when he startles at the creaking of the floorboards below them.

“Save it,” Raven interrupts before he can respond, her flashlight skittering over rotting wood and peeling wallpaper, her voice echoing faintly in the quiet, “Stick to the plan guys. One room per person, make sure your phones are recording through the night. Jasper, set up the camcorder here and the rest of you, fan out and pick a room.”

“Splitting up is the cue for dropping dead in horror movies,” Bellamy argues, his voice growing in pitch at Clarke’s exasperated eye roll, “Have none of you actually watched a horror movie?”

“If you’re going to be a wuss about it, go home.” Raven says, matter-of-fact, unfolding the legs of the tripod with practiced grace.

He swears at that, stomping away and through a corridor, wood screaming in protest under the weight of his boots, the deliberate slam of a door.

“Someone should probably tell him that the first person to break off from the herd dies,” Monty says interestedly.

Clarke sighs, rubbing at her temples to stem the migraine she feels clawing to the surface, “You know Octavia is going to kill you if anything happens to him, right?”

Raven grins, all teeth, a shark ready to clamp down on its prey, “If nothing gets to me first, that is.”

__________________________

Everything had been going fine until she decided to shift the carpet.

She stares down at it, shapeless and dark around the edges, some of it flaking against the floor, the color of rust and- no, she won’t go there. Her stomach rolls at that, and she pulls it back into place with the edge of her boot.

 _Nothing more than an old house,_ she reminds herself, snapping her phone into position on the tripod grimly, _just one night._  That’ll placate Raven.

There’s a bed in the room that she’s picked, but the thought of sleeping on the lumpy mattress wrapped in moth-bitten sheets sends a fresh wave of revulsion coursing through her. She settles for the floor instead, bundling up in her sleeping bag and keeping her eyes on the ceiling overhead. She counts seventeen cracks.

It’s an effort not to bolt upright at every sound- at the squeaking of floorboards and the sharp sound of someone turning on the tap- and Clarke soon finds herself exhausted, right on the brink of falling when she hears the unmistakable sound of someone fumbling with the door knob.

“Jasper?” She asks, fighting to keep her voice level-

“It’s me,” Bellamy mutters, shamefaced, leaning against the door frame. “Can I come in?”

Clarke makes a noise of assent, tapping at the spot on the floor next to her. She’ll never admit it- at least, not to his face- but she’s glad he’s here. There’s something inherently comforting about Bellamy, in the familiarity of his soap and the heat of his skin.

“Raven’s going to be mad that you left your post,” She teases as he settles down next to her, knees drawn to chest, “The only acceptable excuse is possession.”

“I don’t care,” He says, petulant, “I hate this place. It’s cold and dark and there’s something in my room, Clarke, like this presence-”

“Well, that’ll please Raven, at least.”

“Clarke.”

His eyes are pleading, downright pitiful, and she has to smother her laugh behind her palm because big, bad Bellamy Blake is afraid of _ghosts_ -

She unzips her sleeping bag, wiggling over to the other side and extending a hand over to him, “Go to sleep, Bellamy.”

“You’re the best,” He says weakly, lacing his fingers through hers and kicking off his shoes before zipping up the bag, “And you’re probably going to make fun of me for the next five years, but I don’t care.”

His hand is warm in hers, dry too, callused and heavy against hers. He hasn’t let go, despite the fact that her back is pressed against his chest and their legs are tangled together in the small space. Clarke swallows, flushes when he pushes her hair off her neck, his breath hot against her exposed skin.

“I don’t want to get your hair in my mouth,” He explains and she groans, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

It’s quiet again for a while, and she finds herself relaxing, melting into Bellamy’s warmth as he grunts against her shoulder, eventually pulling his hand away only to band it over the span of her stomach. It’s both easy and thrilling in equal parts and she’ll be lying if she said she never considered this before.

It’s always been like this with him, both of them dancing around each other, on the edge, a hair’s breadth away from something else entirely. She’s not sure what it is, exactly. (Okay, she’s pretty sure, actually.)

They would be good together, she thinks. They could be good together.

But it’s dark and she can feel Bellamy’s breath evening out, stirring her hair slightly, and there’s always morning to think about this-

“Shit,” She remembers, her voice bleary from sleep and muffled against the sleeping bag, “Jasper’s going to flip when he sees the recording.”

Bellamy snorts, tightening his grip on her, his chest rumbling against the divots of her spine, his mouth curving against the skin behind her ear as she closes her eyes, “I’m pretty sure I’ll take him over the ghosts, Clarke.”


	25. three times bellamy catches her using magic; one time she admits it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Okay for the halloween prompts, I have yet to see a Halloweentown AU and that is a tragedy to me? Okay but in all seriousness I love all the domestic magic in the Halloweentown movies, so with that in mind, my prompt is bellarke + domestic magic (maybe something goes wrong, and, ya know, literally blows up in their faces).

+ **  
**

Clarke is a mature, responsible adult, so of _course_  she’s using her magic to get all her paperwork done.

The office pretty much cleared out by seven anyway, so it’s not like anyone’s going to catch her in the act. She does dim the lights as an extra precaution though, peeling off her tights and kicking off her heels to get comfortable before she starts sorting.

(Magic had always been easy for her- instinctual and infinite, a current running down her spine, seeping into bone- and she had always wondered if maybe her body was nothing more than a vessel containing it.)

She sends another stack of papers zooming over to Raven’s desk, grazing past another pile meant to land on Miller’s, sending a few sheets fluttering to the floor. Swearing under her breath, she levitates the stray sheets off the ground, pulling them up-

“Clarke?”

She shrieks at the interruption- papers scattering all over the place, breath still caught in her throat- and there’s Bellamy Blake, leaning against the doorframe and looking faintly bemused.

“What are  _you_  doing here?” She snaps, swinging her legs off her desk and tugging her skirt past her thighs. He, blessedly, looks away at that, and Clarke takes the moment to compose herself.

“Left my phone at my desk,” He says, casual, reaching over her cubicle to snag it off his desk before remarking, “That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“Yeah uh,” She’s going for charming here, self deprecation maybe, but it’s hard to do it through gritted teeth, “Shouldn’t have switched on the fan. I’m an idiot.” 

He raises his brows, shifting his gaze pointedly to the immobile fan. Clarke swallows, her mind scrambling frantically for a plausible sounding excuse-

“Don’t stay too late,” He says finally, reaching down fluidly and scooping up the sheath of papers before dropping them on her desk. (She flinches at the sound, forces a smile.)

Bellamy grins, a little too knowing for her liking, “See you tomorrow, Griffin.”

“See you,” She manages weakly, before he strides off, slamming the door behind him.

Clarke groans, slumping back into her chair, her magic trembling agitatedly against skin, rustling the papers and rattling the drawers.

Figures that it’s the new guy that catches her out.

+

Clarke has been working at Ark Associates for two years now, and she’s kept her magic a secret from her colleagues since then.

She’s always been careful about using it during work hours, taking extra precautions and going the extra mile to make sure no one noticed anything out of the ordinary. It was working, for the most part, despite some of her unexplainable feats, like how the printer miraculously managed to print those urgent faxes despite it being out of toner.

(“Technology,” She said as a means of explanation, and Miller seemed to have bought it, nodding somberly and shooting a glare at the copier machine as if willing it to combust.)

Then the firm hired a new copy-writer, and it all went to shit.

Bellamy Blake was unfairly good looking, for one, with the rumpled sex hair and the too-small button-ups that pulled tight over his shoulders. Clarke spent the whole of the first week acclimating to the fact that her new desk mate was stupidly attractive, and no, that was not a good enough reason to  _stare_.

So she spent the rest of the second week making a conscious effort to ignore him, tilting her laptop screen up so she wouldn’t get distracted by his freckles or the bob of his throat when he laughed.

It would have worked out for her eventually, she thinks. Like, she would have built up an immunity to his attractiveness and she would finally be able to look him in the eye without having some fleeting sexual thought about his arms.

But he was smart and argumentative, and way, way too observant when it came to her magic. Her mild crush on him had turned to full-blown wariness by the third week, when he had questioned her yet  _again_  about the pantry’s kettle.

“Have you ever noticed that the water is always hot whenever you come to brew your tea?” He mentions, mild, as she threw a tea bag into the steaming cup of water.

“Must be lucky,” She says tightly, dumping a spoon into the mix and stirring at it.

“It’s weird,” He muses, reaching past her for a sugar packet, “The kettle always goes off whenever I hear you walking down the hallway. Like clockwork.”

“Lucky coincidence, maybe.” She remarks, working to keep her tone dismissive and her hands steady.

And he had a knack of looking at her- directly and unflinching, like he was sussing her out, working out something- that made her feel distinctly unsettled. She was positive that he liked watching her squirm, a slow, stupid grin working up his face whenever he caught her out. (It’s ridiculous how boyish he looks when he smiles like that. She  _hates_  it.)

So, this is her life now. Waiting an extra five minutes hanging by the pantry as her water boils. It’s the worst.

She shoots Bellamy a covert glare, sticking her tongue out at his back before turning back to her tea. She’s not sure if it’s a coincidence that he starts whistling after, a stupid, jaunty tune that makes her want to hit him.

+

It takes a considerable amount of restraint not to use her magic in front of Bellamy.

She slips up sometimes, reheats her cup of tea while he’s sitting directly across her or shifts the trash can closer so she won’t have to get up. He always responds in the same, infuriating manner- a raised eyebrow, a all too suggestive remark- yet another way of getting under her skin, of pushing at her buttons.

It’s stupid how he won’t just come up to her and ask about it, almost as if he’s expecting her to tell him instead. Sure, they’re sort of friends now- considering they’re both colleagues and deskmates, it’s impossible not to build some form of rapport with each other- but if she ever told him about it, she’s pretty sure it won’t end well. It  _never_  ends well.

(She thinks of the horror stories her mother used to tell her and it leaves her with a sour taste against her tongue. No, definitely not yet.)

She refuses to dwell on this- or Bellamy, for that matter- so she pushes all thoughts about him and the situation at hand to the back of her mind. It’s not difficult to bury herself in her work anyway, so Clarke doesn’t really think about it, not for awhile, at least.

It turns out drunk Clarke has completely different plans though, because she’s presently screaming at one Bellamy Blake at a very public office party.

She’s not even sure how it started, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re both drunk and incoherent, and that his chest is  _very_  firm when she jabs at it with her finger.

He smells of beer and soap, his hair curling wildly despite the gel he slicked through it for the meeting they had earlier. He’s doing this thing where he looms over her and tells her she’s wrong, mostly, and Clarke thinks she would be a lot more pissed if she wasn’t tipsy and stupidly attracted to him.

She only stops yelling at him when Monty brings out the cake, Raven shoving at her shoulder and hissing, “Resume the foreplay after the birthday song, Griffin.” 

She’s not sure if the indignant squawk leaves her throat, or if it comes out as more a slur, lurching on her feet until Bellamy grabs her by the shoulders to steady her.

He’s tall enough that he has duck down to speak directly against her ear, his breath ticklish against her jaw.

“Steady there, drunky.”

She shivers at the gravel in his voice, her skin erupting into goosebumps, magic straining from skin-

The cake explodes, and it’s all Bellamy’s fault.

(No one knows it was her, of course, but Bellamy does shoot her an exasperated look when she tries bringing up defect candles and the law of gravity into it. No one’s very convinced either.)

+1

Having worked with Bellamy Blake for a grand total of eight months, Clarke’s pretty aware of his moods. And right now, he’s certifiably pissed. Not that she blames him, really.

He stomps up to her in the break room, glowering, tie askew and jaw working.

“You tampered with it, didn’t you?” He says, accusatory.

“Use your words, Bellamy. You have to be a lot more specific than that.”

“My presentation,” He mutters, deflating, sinking into a chair while rubbing his palm over his face, “I don’t know how you did it. And I don’t want to be dramatic or anything, but I’m pretty sure you just saved my job.”

“To be fair, you were working on it after you pulled an all-nighter.” She points out, settling in next to him, “I just made some adjustments.”

“Strange,” He adds, the corners of his mouth twitching, “Considering I worked on it on my personal laptop. Which you had no access to.”

“iCloud,” Clarke says mock solemnly, and his face falls at that, brows scrunching together before he recovers, smiling at her instead.

And before she can chicken out, she adds, “Also, you know. The whole magic thing.”

He grins at that- a genuine one, this time- tugging at her hand until she laces her fingers through his, rolling her eyes at his smug expression.

“I figured,” He says, triumphant, resting his forehead against hers, “I had you figured out a long time ago, Clarke Griffin.”

“Don’t get too cocky, Blake.” She tells him, magic surging through her fingertips as she slams the door shut, before leaning down to kiss him.


	26. who you gonna call?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "that is the weakest looking protection circle I’ve ever seen and NO I DON’T CARE THAT THIS IS AN EMERGENCY, YOUR DRAWING SKILLS NEED WORK DUDE” au

In all fairness, Bellamy doesn’t set out to become a paranormal investigator.

It all just happens, thanks to a good word Octavia put in for him for him during her internship at a TV network. A year later and he’s the star of his own paranormal reality series, with semi-decent ratings and the occasional double-take from strangers on the street.

It’s a fun job, all things considering. He gets to travel for one, and he gets to work with the best group of people ever. Alright,  _best_ might be a slight exaggeration, but it’s impossible not to feel fond of your crew when they’ve plunged into a freezing cold lake with you to investigate a supposed haunting. (It was actually a bevy of otters. No one likes talking about it.)

So naturally, he’s pretty distressed when Miller tells him that they’re going to be making some changes to the current crew.

“It’s more of an addition,” Miller says, clearly exasperated by this entire interaction already. “The network feels that you could use a co-host. A Clarke Griffin, I think?”

“What.” He states flatly, because  _seriously, what the hell._

Miller shrugs, nonchalant. “I think they’re trying to go with a Mulder and Scully vibe here.”

“Mulder and Scully were FBI agents.” Bellamy argues, mostly just to be difficult because it’s not like he can do anything about the situation. He hates the network.

“They felt that the episodes could use some spicing up.” Miller mutters, pointed, and at Bellamy’s withering glare, adds, “Their words, not mine.”

“So I’ll bring some garlic with me the next time we go on a shoot,” He grumbles, slumping in his chair petulantly, “you don’t have to get me a  _co-host.”_

“Maybe you’ll like her.” Miller responds, deadpan, in a way that suggests he knows exactly how much they won’t get along, “Just-- don’t be too much of an asshole, okay?”

“No.” He grunts, before stomping out to go get ready for tonight’s taping.

They’re filming at a barnhouse tonight, one of those dilapidated structures with an actual windmill at the back and everything. Bellamy goes by first to scope things out, but nothing actually shows up on his K-II EMF meter or on his geophone, so it’s safe to say that the case is a bust.

He contemplates sitting back and just reading until the rest show up, but then he remembers he’s supposed to be creating some interesting content for the goddamned network, so he goes on Google instead to look up some ideas.

Bellamy’s about midway through drawing some sigil that’s apparently meant to summon demons (go big or go home, really) when he hears a rather pointed cough.

“Shit,” He swears, dropping the piece of chalk and falling back on his haunches, his foot lunging out and smearing the shaky lines he scrawled just moments ago.

“What are you even  _supposed_  to be drawing?” The girl asks, brow furrowed and arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing one of those beanies, the kind with the huge pom poms and pink tassels and it’s really, really cute on her. He flushes involuntarily.

“Uh, I’m the paranormal investigator-”

“I know who you are,” She interrupts, impatient, her boots thumping loudly against the floors as she crosses the room to sit down next to him, “I’m kind of confused on what you’re trying to do, though.”

“Protective circle.” He says smoothly, adopting that calm, I-am-a-professional tone he uses on camera, “You should probably-”

“This is literally the worst protective circle that I’ve seen.” She declares, reaching up and rubbing off the chalk with her palm, “You sure do suck at drawing, for a professional.”

Bellamy bristles, reminds himself that it’s probably not a good idea to yell at a client-

“I’ll re-do it,” She says, mild, and at his bewildered expression, adds, “I watch a lot of supernatural.”

“Okay, m’am-”

“Weren’t there supposed to be two of you?” She asks, forming a perfect circle with a fluid motion of the chalk, carefully evening out the lines.

“Yeah, well.” He grumbles, relenting, before folding his knees up to his chest so she can work on whatever the hell she’s doing, “It turns out I’m the punctual one.”

“Wow,” She snorts, resting up on her elbows and peering out at him from a curtain of hair, “do I sense some animosity there?”

“New girl.” Bellamy says, dismissive, “A real princess, from the looks of it and here to fuck up the dynamic of my team.” He stops himself before he can go on a minute long rant about the situation, mutters instead, “That was probably really unprofessional-”

She hums in response, kicking up her legs behind her so they dangle over the small of her back, “No, it’s okay. I’m curious now.”

It’s weirdly easy to tell her everything, he thinks, mostly because she’s a good listener, prompting him whenever he skims on the details and making encouraging noises whenever he makes a particularly good point. Bellamy should probably work up the courage to get her number because it’s been all of twenty minutes and he  _really_  likes her already.

He wets his lips, forces down the churning of his stomach, “So, listen-”

But of  _course_ Miller chooses the exact moment to show up, camera crew trailing behind him and barking orders a mile a minute. He’s half tempted to brave it out anyway, but then Miller goes, “So I see you two met?” and everything veers into into very confusing territory.

“Oh right, I haven’t introduced myself yet.” She pauses, turning over and slotting her hair behind her ears carefully, “It’s Clarke.” Her voice dark, smile brittle and _holy shit_ -

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He breathes.

“You wish.” She says, saccharine sweet, getting to her feet and taking extra care in trampling on his foot, “Good talk, Bellamy.”

He scowls at the smug expression on her face, the glint in her eye like she’s already won whatever fucked up game they’re playing. No way is he going to let her take away the one thing he’s worked on for years.

“You too,  _princess_.” He spits, scuffing his sneaker against the intricate patterns of circles, the pain-stakingly shaded in geometric shapes. Her face hardens at that, nostrils flaring as he crosses his arms over his chest, glares right back at her.

Oh, it’s definitely  _on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm done with finals (and my multichap and my bellarke ss fic) so now I'm back on the prompts bandwagon! Some of you guys have actually sent me messages asking me where to look for prompts, so I'm just gonna direct you to my [prompts](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/tagged/prompts) page here. Send me a few and I'll try to get them written out ASAP for y'all.


	27. storage space

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "guys I think the science teacher and history teacher are making out in the storage closet"

The worst kept secret of Ark high has to be the rivalry between Mr. Blake and Ms. Griffin. **  
**

Even Jasper-obtuse, _naive_ Jasper-picks up on it on the first day, nudging Monty sharply in the ribs when Ms. Griffin barges in during history just so she can inform Mr. Blake, in honeyed tones, no less, that he broke her projector. It would have been a perfectly innocent interaction, Monty thinks, if it wasn’t for Mr. Blake’s responding glare and the vein throbbing spectacularly against Ms. Griffin’s forehead.

It really only gets worse from there.

There are a lot of passive aggressive jabs made at each other’s expense during class time, like how Ms. Griffin is technologically inept because no one uses _projectors_ anymore, or how Mr. Blake can’t pronounce hyperbole right. (“It’s _hy-per-ba-lee_.” Ms. Griffin stresses, smug.) This back and forth is pretty routine, at this point, with both of them always ending on the _and you can quote me on that!_ note, which is uh, strange to say the least.

It’s almost as if they want to publicise how much they hate each other. On good days, Monty finds it amusing. On bad days, it’s just downright pathological.

“So who do you think would win in a cage fight,” Jasper muses during one of their many mandatory assemblies, which mostly serves as an excuse for principle Wallace to drone on and on because of how much he loves the sound of his own voice, “Blake or Griffin?”

“Mr. Blake or Ms. Griffin,” He corrects, frowning. Mr. Blake is pretty cool about them calling him by Bellamy, but still. Monty’s probably never going to be able to break the habit. “Probably Ms. Griffin. She’s tiny but aggressive.”

Jasper nods sagely, “Like a badger.” Then craning his head to peer over the rows and rows of seats, where normally the faculty occupies, “She’s not even _here_.”

“Probably because she’s not stupid.” Monty mutters, slumping down further in his seat. Assemblies are the worst.

“We should sneak out.” Jasper declares, grinning, sliding off his seat fluidly and dropping into a crawl before Monty can hiss at him about how stupid that idea is.

He groans, but follows suit anyway, whispering apologies to the one guy whose feet they trod over in their haste.

“I hope you’re happy.” Monty says mournfully, as they barrel out into the corridor, “That guy is going to hunt us down after school and beat the crap out of us.”

“Nah.” Jasper replies, easy, shoving his hands into the pocket of his jacket. Then, with the wrinkle of his nose, “Do you hear that?”

“Nah? He’s three times our size and has a tattoo that stretches over his _entire_ forearm–” Monty swears under his breath, scrambling to catch up with Jasper as he strides down the corridor, “where the hell are you even _going_?”

He shushes him, still grinning maniacally, “I think someone’s hooking up in the storage closet.”

“That’s their business.” Monty insists, wiping away at the warm sweat that has gathered against the back of his neck, swallowing hard to bring some moisture back to his desert-dry throat–

Then Jasper pushes the door open, albeit very carefully, and Monty has to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from doing something stupid, like yelling.

He spots the familiar halo of blonde hair first, all rucked up and falling out of its precise bun, before he manages to pull his gaze away over to the broad frame hovering over her, shirt stretched tight over shoulders that Monty has admittedly drooled over more than once.

Jasper makes a high-pitched, strangled noise when Mr. Blake ducks his head down, presumably to start making out with Ms. Griffin all over again, and Monty has the foresight to ease the door shut before they’re spotted.

“Jesus!” Jasper yelps, and they scramble for cover behind the lockers before the door bangs open.

Mr. Blake ducks out first, straightening his tie and casting a cursory look down the corridor before Ms. Griffin slides out too, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. _Honestly_. If the situation wasn’t so dire, Monty would be laughing at how even the teachers have more of a sex life than he does.

(For some strange, non-crush related reason, his mind automatically goes to the guy who sits by him in english, the one with the beanie and the slow, sharp smirk and yeah, he bats the thought away before he can get any further distracted.)

“Get back in there first,” Mr. Blake murmurs, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of her back, a surprisingly intimate gesture, “I’ll go in five minutes after.”

Ms. Griffin glares, crossing her arms over her chest, “What are we, twelve?”

He scowls, “I’m being careful, and not raising _suspicions,_ is all.”

She huffs rather impatiently, “You’re going to drive me nuts one day, Bellamy Blake.”

“I already do.” He replies, smug, and Monty doesn’t look away fast enough before they’re kissing all over again, Ms. Griffin’s fingers tangled up in the lapels of his shirt and his sliding down to cup her ass.

 _Gross_ , Jasper mouths, looking extraordinarily pained. He suppresses a giggle into his palm, chances another quick glance. Thankfully, they’ve prised their mouths apart but are now conversing in low tones, foreheads pressed up against each other.

It’s sweet, strangely. There’s a kind of fondness in the way he cups her jaw and how she leans into his touch, a familiarity. It’s not– it’s not something Monty thought he would ever witness when it came to them both.

Then they’re off, Ms. Griffin straightening out her skirt and shooting Mr. Blake a dirty look after he sneaks a quick pinch to her ass. He holds his breath when they pass, both somehow resuming their grumpy expressions, and Jasper shrinks further against him until they’ve both turned into the other hallway.

“We are never speaking of this again.” Jasper announces, shaking out the dust gathered in his hair, “Old people are the worst.”

“Yeah,” Monty agrees, thoughts drifting back to how they had clung to each other before, how one would unconsciously shift to accommodate the other, like going through the steps of a dance only they knew of.

He swallows down a small stab of envy, turns to smile at Jasper instead. (He’s never been one for jealousy anyway, and someday) “Definitely never talking about this again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay if you squint REALLY hard you might catch a glimpse of one of my fave book characters in this fic. like, IF YOU SQUINT REALLY HARD. hint: probably from the lunar chronicles. which I'm currently obsessed with. but anyway. I'm done with my all (!!!) my ongoing bellarke fics so more time to write prompts! send them over to my inbox, as per usual. you guys know what to do.


	28. all the world's a stage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I’m the awkward new english teacher and you’re the suave drama teacher that everyone loves and I’m not sure if you’re flirting or just doing improv" + Bellarke?

She’s reciting a monologue from _Twelfth Night_ the first time he meets her, clearly drunk off her face and swaying precariously from her perch on the break room table.

Bellamy blinks, asks no one in particular, “Is this a common occurrence?”

“Pretty much.” Monty tells him, mild, joining in with the raucous applause as the girl slides off the table, grinning, “Clarke only likes to break out the monologues at parties though.”

“You guys must have some really wild parties.” He remarks dryly, narrowly missing a wave of eggnog splashing against his shoes.

“We like to let loose occasionally.” He smiles, handing him a bud light, “Want me to introduce you?”

“I’m good.” He shrugs. It’s awkward enough as it is being the new guy, but crashing the staff Christmas party before his actual first day (at principal Jaha’s insistence) is all new levels of horrifying. His comprehensive game plan involves making small talk for an hour before making a run for it.

But then Clarke Griffin corners him by the kitchen and everything just sort of goes out of the window.

“I don’t know you.” She says, decisive, squinting as she assesses him carefully, “Which is weird, because I know _everyone_ here.”

She’s staring at him suspiciously now-cheeks all flushed and eyebrows scrunched up in concentration, like she’s trying to work out something incredibly complex in her head- and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle his laugh. It’s pretty cute, actually.

“Oh come on,” He teases, folding his arms across his chest, “I’ve been here for the past two months. I teach the kids how to make sandwiches and color inside the lines.”

Clarke hiccups, attempts to swat at his shoulder but misses spectacularly, “We already have Jasper for that. You’re not Jasper. Your arms are way too nice to be Jasper’s.”

He blushes a little at that, mostly because Bellamy’s not _immune_ to cute girls complimenting him or anything, “Uhm. No but jokes aside, I’m actually new here. I’m going to be teaching english.”

“Hey!” Clarke brightens, “That’s cool. You could help me out for drama, then.”

“Right,” Bellamy snorts, “I don’t have any experience with performing, though so. Probably not the best candidate.”

“It’s not much work,” She wheedles, making a sweeping hand gesture that just barely misses a mug full of eggnog, “maybe some admin stuff, and you could be my assistant during demonstrations. Please? Come on. It’ll be _fun_ -”

She’s getting louder by the minute-which is, not ideal because people are starting to stare- so he ekes out a _okay_ just to placate her, at least temporarily. She beams up at him, taps his chin consideringly, “You’re really nice.”

“That’s new.” He mutters, pouring her a glass of water and watching her down it, grimacing as if the effort required is exhausting enough, “So I’m going to go now. But I’ll see you when the term starts, I guess?”

Clarke hums, a contented little sound falling off her lips, “See you.”

She doesn’t bring it up again when they meet again for a few meetings, and Bellamy’s 85% sure she’s forgotten all about it. She was drunk and flushed and kind of incoherent when she asked, so it’s not surprising. He does like talking to her though, hanging out with her and bantering about books and music and politics. They see each other a lot in the weeks leading up to school and she’s definitely her favorite out of all his colleagues.

“Just ask her out already.” Raven mutters, making a disgusted noise when he shoots her an incredulous look, “You guys are so _obvious_.”

“You– shut up.” He retorts, because it’s not like he’s never thought about it. It’s just that it’s _Clarke_ and he’s not sure how he should broach this entire thing without fucking up their entire friendship. Work would be a lot less enjoyable if he didn’t have Clarke to talk to.

Bellamy’s still brooding over it when she finds him after, hair thrown up in a messy bun with a pencil stuck through it. She frowns, pokes his side, “You ready?”

He stares at her blankly, tightens his grip on his coffee cup, “Ready for?”

“You promised you’d help out during my drama class.” She says, nonchalant, “Don’t tell me you were too wasted to remember.”

“Was not.” He says instinctively, then at her widening grin, sighs, “Lead the way.”

“I knew I could count on you.” Clarke teases, jostling his elbow until he relents and lets himself be dragged along.

It’s not hardship or anything, really. He helps her get the kids in order, runs lines with her for demonstrations. He stammers through most of it though it’s not as embarrassing as he thought it would be. At least no one’s laughing at him. Yet.

They’re demonstrating an improv scene when she goes, “So you’re a coffee person, right?” almost entirely out of the blue and it throws him for a loop for all about five seconds before he manages to stutter out an affirmative.

“You drink the instant coffee they provide at the lounge.” Clarke says, as a way of explanation, “I kinda figured that you’re really not picky when it comes to your caffeine.”

“Not really,” Bellamy says warily, sneaking a quick look over at everyone still looking at them, “I don’t care as long as it does the job, you know?”

“That’s a shame.” She shrugs, “I know a really good coffee place down the road. I thought you might like it.”

“Uh.” He wets his lips, nearly breaks character to ask if she’s serious because honestly, he would say yes in a heartbeat if she asked him out. She’s smart and funny and cynical and Bellamy is pretty stupidly into her already, so.

“That sounds fun.” He hedges, then because she’s looking at him all expectant and maybe even disappointed, he screws up the courage to say, “I would like that a lot.”

She smiles at that, wide and genuine and warm and he ducks his head so she won’t see him grin, focusing on scuffing his shoes against the linoleum instead.

Clarke clears her throat, averting her gaze from him, cheeks flushed a pretty pink, “Everyone get into pairs and start on the improv exercises on the sheet provided. I’ll be walking around to observe in a bit.”

She jogs over when the noise starts up all over again, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket and small smile playing on her lips, tentative and unsure in the way like he’s never seen before.

“I can’t believe you just asked me out in front of everyone.” He states, point blank, making her laugh into the palm of her hand.

“It was a fool-proof plan.” Clarke insists, “See, if you said no, I could have played it off as part of the exercise. But if you said yes, then well.” She hesitates, adds, “I was hoping you would say yes.”

“I would kiss you if we didn’t have a class full of witnesses.” He tells her, grinning, and she reaches out to squeeze his palm, quick and dry and reassuring.

“Patience,” She teases, hips swinging as she melts back into the crowd, peeking at him over her lashes and shooting him sly smiles whenever they make eye contact.

(Bellamy makes it to the end of the day before he kisses her, pressed up against her car and hands on her hips. He reckons he’s waited long enough when it comes to Clarke Griffin.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm probably gonna be posting a lot more these few weeks because I wanna get my fics out of the way before S3 comes along? So yeah expect a influx of prompts and my WIPS to be wrapped up


	29. go anywhere you want me to

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A missing scene from the good ol’ days of season one, where our favourite co-leaders didn’t have all that much to worry about except hallucinogenic nuts and the occasional temper tantrum from one of the delinquents. Dedicated to [feminist14er](http://feminist14er.tumblr.com/), whose amazing fics were one of the many reasons I fell into this fandom. Have an amazing birthday lovely, and I hope you like this! x

Bellamy Blake makes it a point to _not_ pay attention to Clarke Griffin, unless he has to.

It’s bad enough that he has to co-parent a whole brood of helpless, hormonal teenagers with her. He refuses, based on principle and principle alone, to become friends with her. She has plenty of those anyway, with spacewalker hanging onto her every word and the wonder twins following her around like lost, overly-eager fawns.

But she’s been sneezing uncontrollably for the past hour or so, wiping her nose on that dirty, grimy sleeve of hers and it’s _disgusting_ \--

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, making sure to inject extra venom in there lest she mistakes it for concern.

(It’s not like he’s _worried_ or anything, it’s just goddamned unhygienic, that’s all.)

Clarke sniffles, manages a pitiful, “I think I might have the flu.”

“Well, I sure couldn’t have figured that out.” he mutters, sardonic, “Great job on diagnosing yourself, doc. Now, how about fixing it?”

She huffs, swatting aside a few strands of hair that has slipped out of her braid, “Sure, Bellamy. I’ll just grab some antibiotics from the burgeoning supply we have and be on my way now.”

He snorts a little at that, tries to play it off as a cough because he’d rather die than admit that she _can_ be pretty funny sometimes. From the way she’s grinning up at him now, all pleased, Bellamy reckons he didn’t actually succeed.

“Fine, just go to bed.” he grouses, rolling up the newly-drawn map of grounder territories with one hand while absentmindedly scrubbing the other through his hair, “You’re no good to me when you can’t focus anyway.”

“I need to drop by the med bay first,” she mumbles, her words dropping off into a slur as she struggles to lace up her boots, “need to do inventory, then--”

Bellamy swears under his breath, grabs ahold of her wrist before she can do something stupid like fall into the pit while staggering to the med bay. She squeaks, colliding into him and he groans when the top of her head clips his jaw.

Clarke giggles, and the sound startles him so much he nearly loosens his grip on her, “You’re all sweaty.”

“It’s hot out.” he retorts, feeling stupidly self conscious before grabbing her from under the armpits and hauling her over to his bedroll. She plops down against it none too gracefully, limbs flailing and head dangling over the edge until he gives in and pushes her up, wrapping her carefully in his sheets.

She wrinkles her nose, wiggling carefully so the sheets go up to her nose, “Smells like you, too.”

“I know I stink, deal with it.” he says, flat. Her forehead burns under the skin of his palm, and he curses lowly, wiping the sheen of sweat off with the edge of his sleeve.

“I’m cold,” she whines, even though her cheeks are flushed, shirt clinging against her collarbone and speckled with sweat, “it’s like the arctic circle over here.”

“Just-- lie down, okay?” Bellamy snaps, his mind racing as he tries to process what is the best possible course of action. Get Harper to look at her? Or maybe Monty, to brew her some of that special tea--

Her hand snakes out from the blankets, latches onto his wrist, “C’mere.”

“I’m going to get _help_.” he says, exasperated when her tugging persists, twisting hard enough that it nearly rips the thin fabric of his shirt. Relenting, he slides in next to her, making sure to keep his arms clamped to his sides and positioned as far away from her as possible.

But Clarke’s having none of that- with a pleased hum, she settles against his chest, burying her face against the crook of his neck and pressing her forehead against his cheek. He stills, tries to calm the irrational pounding of his heart.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re a furnace.” she retorts, though her voice is lacking the edge it normally contains in all their interactions. “Feels nice.”

Some hair gets into his mouth, and he spits it out at delicately as he can, glaring down at the side of her ear, “By all means, princess. Inconvenience me in this manner.”

Clarke yawns, the sound still prim and haughty despite how unrestrained she’s behaving, “Do you ever think about birds?”

He sighs, pulls at the shirt sticking uncomfortably against his chest, Clarke’s body still pressed flush against his, “Not particularly, no.”

“Do you ever wonder about how they _feel?_ ” she says in child-like wonderment, her fingers bunching up the fabric of his shirt and yanking, “Bellamy. _Bellamy_.”

“Please go to sleep,” he pleads, casting his gaze up to the ceiling of his tent, riddled with holes and rips he hastily stitched over--

It’s a bad move on his part, really, because somehow his looking away translates to her rolling over to straddle his hips, chin resting against his chest while he stutters, praying valiantly that she doesn’t shift, or move at all, really--

“Bellamy,” Clarke scowls, her warm breath fanning his face, hair tickling the side of his neck, “I don’t think the pigeons appreciate your callousness.”

“Okay,” he says, hating how strangled his voice sounds, “get off me, now?”

“Like it here.” she says petulantly, grounding her hips against his until he yelps and flips her over fluidly, his arm fitting against her ribs and holding her there.

“Why did we _move_?”

“Better acoustics.” Bellamy says between his teeth, glaring at the tuft of hair tickling his nostrils. He pushes it off her neck, has the foresight to card his fingers through it before braiding it away from his face.

Clarke moans a little at that, the sound muffled against his pillow, “Keep doing that.”

He grunts an affirmative, lifts her hair from its roots and neatly sections it. She relaxes under his touch, her body soft and warm and pliant against his, and he swallows, hard, forces himself to think of something else when he works his fingers down to her back.

“Will you keep doing that until I fall asleep?” she asks, her voice small, tired.

“Yeah.” he rasps, heart clenching at the twist of her mouth, the faintest quirk of her lips, “Promise.”

She settles down eventually, breath evening out and soft snores filling the tent. This is his cue to leave, really, to go grab a drink by the fire or find someone else to spend the night with, but. He’s never seen her so peaceful before, the steady rise and fall of her chest lulling him, the clean smell of soap on her neck drawing him in.

Bellamy slides his thumb down the length of her chin, feeling suddenly, _stupidly_ fond of her.

(God. They’re friends, aren’t they?)

“G’night.” he mutters, then settles in, right by her side, where he always has been.


	30. they're calling off the war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: an early s2 fic where clarke escapes the mountain men and finds bellamy and finn before they meet up with kane? the hug from 2x05 happens in the woods instead of in camp jaha? :)
> 
> with bonus face caressing! from 3x02

At first, it was nothing but a disembodied voice, gentle, soothing. A single ripple in still waters.

 _Get up_ , it tells her, with her legs quivering and skin rubbed raw, tasting blood and dirt in her mouth despite the sterile white walls. Then, with a shard of glass held between her fingers, _fight back_. Feet pounding down tunnels with floors slick with grease, pulse screaming in her ears, louder than the sound of rushing water, _you have to jump, Clarke._

And slowly, without quite realising it, the voice begins to takes shape.

With every hacking cough, spewing water from her lungs, _I told you to hold your breath, Princess_. Clothes clinging to skin, damp and wet and frigid, nails digging half moon crescents into her palm to keep from trembling, _just a little while longer._

Trudging through the woods, her breath appearing in short huffs, curling up into the air, water weighing her bones and settling into iron instead. Clarke shakes. She trembles. She braces herself for the impact that will come when she falls.

Then the phantom brush of fingers, the beginning of an insouciant smirk that she knows all too well. “Come on now, Clarke.” Bellamy laughs, gait smooth and easy, pulling further and further away from her, “You’re not going to hold us back now, are you?”

She gives an exasperated sigh. God, even the Bellamy in her head is a asshole.

“You wish,” she expels through gritted teeth, plunging forward, “I won’t give you the satisfaction, Bellamy Blake.”

He smirks, beckons her forward with the crook of his finger. This is Bellamy as she remembered him, all blood matted curls and feral smile, smudges of dirt against his jaw.

Except– except this Bellamy looks at her with a kind of softness in her eyes, too. _Gentle_. Maybe she made this part up in her head entirely.

She crawls when it starts to get too hard to walk, pushing herself forward with her elbows. There’s respite in rain, and she doesn’t even get up when it happens, just turns herself over and opens her mouth to drink. She drinks until she begins to feel sick, stomach rolling and choking on its taste in her mouth–

“Easy,” he tells her warningly, and she closes her mouth at the graze of his fingers against her jaw, “measured sips, Clarke.” Her head supplies her with the image of him back in the dropship, water sliding down the length of his nose and hair sticking up in wet tufts– _there had been another storm then_ , too, she remembers, sudden, with Finn’s harsh breaths echoing in her ears and blood caked under her fingernails, anguish and worry and the warmth of Bellamy’s palm, resting against her shoulder.

He snorts, sardonic, “I thought you were supposed to be _good_ at earth skills.”

“Bite me,” she croaks, dragging herself forward through a cluster of trees, ducking under a exposed rock that provides some shelter.

And she must fall asleep sometime after, because waking up is slow, like extricating herself from the ground, pulling up roots. Clarke blinks, swallows away the stale taste in her mouth. He’s still there, looking at her, head tilted like he’s amused.

“Why does it have to be you?”

Bellamy shrugs, his hand going up to her face, surprisingly tender. Hands that could break and ruin, hands that have cradled and held, too. He smiles, heartbreaking in its warmth, sweeps a limp strand of hair away, “Who else was it going to be?”  

She takes one last sip of water that she finds clinging to a leaf, keeps walking.

It rains again, a mild drizzle more than anything this time, so she doesn’t register the sound of footsteps until it lets up, sweat damp against the back of her neck and straining forward to listen.

Then she sees him through the trees, and all the air rushes out of her lungs.

His name catches in her throat, but her legs work faster than her voice. It comes out as an exhale, a sigh into the crook of his neck when she slams up against him, his body swaying underneath hers from the force alone.

He breathes her name too rather than says it, his arms going around her and holding tight. She stifles a choked sob, buries her face into the jut of his shoulder, inhales shakily; sweat and pine and smoke, and above everything else, home.

 _You’re safe now_ , she nearly says. _Just as I am with you._

She pulls away first, her hands sliding down to his elbows instead, reluctant to let go. He has a new scar to add to his arsenal, a crescent moon extending down his cheek, and he looks at her like how he makes out the constellations in the sky. Reverent, focused.

( _It wasn’t– she didn’t make it up, it’s not in her head–_ )

“Figures,” he laughs, the sound watery more than anything. “You’re too stubborn to die.”

“Well, so are you.” she retorts.

 _You kept me alive_ , she doesn’t say. _Don’t you know? I carry you with me._

Their fingers brush, once. Twice. For half a second, she thinks he might actually take it.

But instead he beckons her forward, grinning, “Time to go home, Clarke.”

She drops her head to the collar of her filthy jacket, hides her smile in the groove of her collar bone, “Right behind you, Bellamy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> random update: I've recently hit 1.5k followers on tumblr and will be doing a fic giveaway! Details [here](http://prosciuttoe.tumblr.com/post/138671454588/prosciuttoe-15k-you-guys-i-dont-know-what) if y'all are interested.


	31. hold on, I'll get the bazooka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [youcareabouthim](http://youcareabouthim.tumblr.com/) won one of my fic giveaways and requested for a sky high au, so here we are!

The first time they get into a actual, no-holds-barred fight, Bellamy sets his lunch tray on fire.

“I can’t believe you wanted my superhero name to be  _ coal _ .” he fumes, stamping out the last of the flames with the edge of his boot. “That’s the worst thing I ever heard, Clarke.” 

“How is it better than  _ blaze _ ?” she huffs, extending her hand out so he could take it and warm it between his, the press of her cool fingertips making him shiver, “It’s so pretentious. What’s wrong with coals?” 

He makes a face, “It doesn’t sound particularly heroic to me.” 

Clarke glares, “And that’s what being a superhero is all about, isn’t it? Well, too bad. I’m vetoing it.” 

“Killjoy.” Bellamy mutters darkly, rolling his eyes at her widening grin. Ordinarily, her words wouldn’t hold much weight; he had  _ hated  _ her back before they were shoved into becoming reluctant partners- their arguments reminiscent of the pig-tail pulling he did back in grade school- but the antagonism between them had grown into grudging admiration and now something akin to friendship. It was a little disconcerting at times. 

“You guys act more like an old married couple than just  _ partners _ .” Octavia tells him whenever he brings it up, and, well. It’s not like she’s wrong. There was no one else he’d rather save the world with than Clarke Griffin.

There’s also the small issue of him being in love with her, but it’s not like he’s going to  _ tell  _ her or anything. Bellamy knows what she’s like when she’s genuinely interested in someone, and it’s clear that she doesn’t harbor any feelings of those sort for him. He may be stupid at times, but he’s not  _ that _ much of an idiot. 

“We haven’t decided on a name for you either,” he points out, reaching out to tug on the end of her braid. “I was thinking that we should tap in on the whole frozen franchise and go with Elsa.” 

“That movie is the worst thing that has happened to me.” she says darkly, narrowly avoiding stepping into a pile of goo which Bellamy suspects is supposed to be Murphy, “Do you know how many puns I have to put up with on an average day?  _ Fifteen _ , Bellamy. It’s exhausting.” 

“Well, if the shoe fits.” He shrugs, yelping when she sends a blast of cool air his way. There’s already chunks of ice caught in his hair, flurries between his lashes and he scowls, rolls his eyes at her when she begins to laugh. 

“You’re melting already anyway,” Clarke teases, going onto her tiptoes and planting a kiss on his cheek. “I’ve got to get to class. I’ll see you in gym.” 

She flits away before he can do something stupid, like demand to know what the  _ hell  _ was that. Clarke’s never-- this is definitely something new. His hand goes up to his cheek absentmindedly, rubbing at the spot, the patch of skin a few degrees cooler than the rest of him. 

New, he decides, grinning. But definitely not unwelcome. 

She starts doing it with increasing frequency too, this whole casual affection thing- fitting into his side during the lulls between classes, her face buried into the crook of his neck, or slipping her fingers through his to pull him along the crowded corridors. It’s distracting to say the least, and pretty hazardous, considering the last time she squeezed his palm and chirped a cheery  _ good luck _ , he had nearly taken off Miller’s head during practice with a misplaced blast of fire.

“I actually like my head where it is.” Miller tells him after, sardonic, beanie pulled low over his head to keep everyone from gawping at his singed eyebrows. “So can you please do something about your big fat crush?” 

He blinks, works to keep his expression innocent. “Do something about what, now?” 

“You’re pathetic.” Miller grumbles, shifting fluidly into a bat before darting off, only rounding back so he can clip him in the chin with an outstretched wing.  _ Asshole _ .

It doesn’t take long for Octavia to catch on- Clarke’s not exactly subtle, and sky high isn’t overflowing with students either- so he’s not surprised when he finds her hovering by the door of his classroom, looking obnoxiously smug. Honestly, he’s impressed she showed so much restraint in the first place. 

“I heard you’ve been a disaster lately.” She smirks, pushing up from her slouch against the wall. 

“Not more than usual.” he shoots back, shifting his bag higher onto his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be in class? Don’t you have a power placement session to get to or something?”

“Partner placement.” Octavia corrects, frowning. “That whole hero-sidekick situation was barbaric and you know it.” 

“Okay,” Bellamy goes, beaming with false enthusiasm. “Good talk. I’ll catch you later.” 

“Ugh, I can’t believe you.” She latches onto his arm when he tries to stride past her, eyebrow arched and lips pursed like she’s trying to keep from laughing. “Are you actually upset right now? I thought you would be ecstatic. Clarke clearly likes you.”

“As a friend.” he counters immediately, trying to quell the flare of hope that rises in his chest at her words. “She’s comfortable with me. That’s all there is.” 

Octavia gives a disbelieving scoff, “Seriously? Do you like being obtuse or is it just a--” 

“It’s the  _ truth _ .” Bellamy snaps, hating how she reels back slightly at the force behind his words, her face going ashen. He sighs, softens. “Look, O. She doesn’t feel that way about me. And that’s okay.”

**“** Bell.” 

“No, listen.” he continues. “I know you’re worried that this will end badly, but you’re making a bigger deal out of it than it actually is. I’m fine with how we are, as of right now.” Octavia’s actually staring him down now- which is mildly frightening- but Bellamy’s sure he can get through to her if he just keeps at it. He’ll wear her down. He’s generally good at that. “It’s-- I’m not pining or heartbroken, or anything like that, okay? I’ve  _ accepted _ it. Maybe you need to, too.” 

She just sighs, lays a hand on his shoulder. “You’re an idiot.”

“I’ve been told.” 

“No, you’re an idiot.” she reiterates, tilting her chin forward. “I tried to stop you, but, well.” 

He scrambles to make sense of her words, only comprehending when she pushes her chin out in yet another exaggerated motion, turning to look and--  _ oh _ . 

“Can we talk?” Clarke asks, hesitant, and Bellamy’s not sure how he’s still standing upright. Let alone agreed to that, for the matter, but Octavia’s patting him on the back and moving away, and Clarke’s drawing closer, the expression on her face unreadable. 

He wets his lips, pushes his hands back into his pockets. “So. I’m guessing you heard all of that.” 

She smiles, wry. “You probably shouldn’t let Miller know that I’m your best friend.”

“I think he knows.” He’s trying for a careless shrug, but the movement just comes off as awkward. “I’m not in love with him, though. That’s-- that’s just you.” 

“What a shame.” Clarke gives a watery chuckle at that, standing so close now that he can feel her breath fanning against the hollow of his throat. “ _ Bell _ .” 

“This doesn’t have to change anything.” he points out, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “As I was telling Octavia--” 

She has to reach up to kiss him, her hands curling over his shoulders and holding him there, his hands going around her waist to hold her steady. Their noses bump, and the first press of her lips is shockingly cold but he deepens the kiss anyway, sliding his hand under her jaw and kissing her like how he always wanted to, thoroughly and carefully, relishing the small sighs she makes every time his too warm skin brushes up against hers.

When they break apart, mouths swollen and hair mussed, she drops her head down to laugh against the curve of his jaw, nuzzling his neck while he grins into her hair, tangling his fingers in it. “ _ Clarke _ .” 

“In case you couldn’t tell, that was me telling you that this is the furthest thing from being one-sided.” she murmurs, cheeks still a little pink from his heat, peeking up at him from between her lashes. It’s possibly the best day of his life. 

“Took you long enough.” he adds mock-sternly, hissing when she presses her deathly cold fingers against the side of his face, tapping her pointer finger against his cheekbone. “God, I’m getting you a space heater for your next birthday.” 

Clarke arches a brow at him, corners of her lips quirking upwards. There’s a constellation of freckles under her eye- one he never noticed before- and he runs his thumb over it, traces the smallest of snowflakes. “Or you could just warm me up.” 

He laughs, sliding his hand under her shirt and feeling her shiver against his palm, arching closer. “That works too.” Bellamy agrees, before ducking his head down to kiss her again, pressing kisses against the skin of her eyelids, the bridge of her nose.

(He has a lot of lost time to make up for when it comes to Clarke Griffin, after all. He’s definitely not planning on wasting it.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will write so much fluff to offset the painfulness of canon, JUST WATCH ME


	32. game on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: could you please write something like clarke tells bellamy he has no game so he starts hitting on her whenever they are together?

It all starts with one too many ill-advised cups of Monty’s moonshine.

“No, but _listen_ ,” Clarke hiccoughs, lurching forward to grab onto his wrist only to discover that her hand is actually clamped somewhere along Bellamy’s upper thigh. Hand-eye coordination has never been her strong suit, especially when she’s shit-faced drunk. “I’m not asking for specifics. Just a ballpark figure.”

His mouth ticks upwards in a slow, languid grin that she’s grown familiar with ever since they’ve become drinking buddies, a situation borne out of necessity rather than choice. It was impossible for them to let loose whenever the rest of the delinquents did because they had to be the responsible ones, so Clarke’s drunken escapades were mostly limited to boozing it up with Bellamy in the dead of the night, in the privacy of his tent. It’s not all that bad.

“Eight.” He goes, decisive, bumping his ankle against hers. A drunk Bellamy was always quicker to smile, to joke. He was affectionate too, nudging his chin against her shoulder to get her to drink or tapping his fingers against her knuckles when she got too quiet. (Clarke’s a fan. Not that she’d admit it, of course.) “What about you?”

“Twelve,” she declares, smug, bursting into his laughter at his arched brow. “I’m surprised, actually. With the revolving door of girls emerging from your tent, I thought you had me beat.”

“I didn’t get the opportunity to sleep with anyone on the ark.” He grumbles, sullen, before taking another sip of moonshine.

“Or maybe you just don’t have any game.” She chirps, beaming when his expression morphs into a disgruntled scowl.

“We’ll see about that.” He slurs, narrowing his eyes at her. The effect is somewhat ruined when he has to lean past her to retch in their makeshift trashcan though, and Clarke spends the rest of the night patting his back until he stops feeling nauseous.  

That should have been the end of it. But it isn’t.

Instead, she finds herself being the recipient of his intense, brooding stares- thoughtful and intriguing all at once, _stupidly_ attractive on him- and it’s distracting, that’s what it is, having him stare at her like this while she’s doing something completely mundane like sorting out herbs or sterilizing the medical equipment. There’s the whole proximity thing, too, constantly standing in her space and just _looming_ over her even though she knows for a fact that he’s not that tall, innocently brushing up against her whenever he gets the opportunity to.

“Whoops,” he smirks when she whirls around and runs right into him, fingers automatically curling around his shoulders before she releases them with a squeak. “Watch yourself there, princess. Don’t want you getting hurt, now.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you stopped breathing down my neck.” Clarke seethes, jabbing a finger against his chest and reminding herself not to get distracted over how firm it feels. They’ve been gathering herbs and supplies from the bunker for over an hour now, and he still refuses to let up. “How am I supposed to get any work done when you’re always hovering?”

Bellamy peers down at her, looking at her from between his lashes, expression filling with doubt. “Am I– shit,” he worries his lip with his teeth, and it’s an effort to keep her eyes fixed on the space between his eyebrows instead. “I’m really bothering you, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” She says hotly, her body responding instinctively and twisting her fingers into the front of his shirt. His eyes widen a fraction, confused, and he’s standing so close now she can feel his warm breath against her cheek. Clarke swallows, ekes out between gritted teeth, “You’re being fucking _infuriating_ , Bellamy.”

His chest rumbles with laughter at that, eyes heavy-lidded and dark when she chances a quick peek up at him. It makes her knees go a little weak, and she has to tighten her grip to keep from doing something embarrassing.

“How am I being infuriating?” He says, lips brushing against her jaw before pulling away again, nose bumping up against hers and holding still, a hair’s breadth away.

“You– you know what you’ve been doing,” Clarke manages, rolling forward on her toes, gratified to hear the hitch in his breath when her lips grazes his. There’s a logical, rational part of her that’s screaming about having gotten herself into this situation in the first place- lusting over her co-leader, of _all_ people- but it’s drowned out by a louder, much more persistent one; one that insists she find out if Bellamy’s lips are softer than they look.

He licks his lips, forcibly dragging his gaze upwards. “I’m not kissing you until you say it.”

She blinks, “Say what?”

“That I have _game,_ ” he goes, petulant, jerking back slightly when she begins to laugh, teeth scraping against his chin and making him scowl. “It’s _not_ funny, Clarke. If you’re–”

She surges up to kiss him then- mostly just to shut him up- but it all falls away when he kisses her back, hard and unyielding, like he’s trying to memorize every curve and dip of her mouth, devour her whole. Clarke whimpers at the slide of his tongue, releasing his shirt and resting her palm over his pulse instead, feeling it thump under her palm before it evens out, his kisses losing its fervor but ratcheting higher in its intensity.

It’s not– it’s definitely not what she’s expecting. She knew it was going to be good, of course, but not like this. It felt overwhelming and inevitable all at once, like letting out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding for the longest time.

“I told you,” Bellamy rasps when they finally break apart, still swaying slightly on the spot. “I told you I had game.”

“Shut up.” She grumbles, taking a pointed step away from him. “Fine, you proved your point. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he retorts, eyes darting over to her swollen mouth, her flushed cheeks. For a second, it seemed as if he would say something, and she reaches out, skin skimming over skin.

Then the sound of a familiar yell in the distance accompanied by a loud boom snaps her out of her reverie, Bellamy dropping his head and giving an exasperated sigh. “Come on,” he proclaims wearily, turning away. “We’ve got some shit to settle.”

“Lead the way,” she mutters, falling into step beside him as they make their way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been missing S1 for far too long, so I was thinking of making this a thing? Send me S1 prompts and I'll write them as a part for my missing-scenes-from-S1 series.


	33. of e-harmony and eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'e-harmony says you're my perfect match which is awkward since I've sworn to hate you all eternity.'

The thing is, it was supposed to be a _joke._ **  
**

It seemed hysterical at the time- setting up an e-harmony profile while shit-faced drunk, that is. Spurred on by copious glasses of wine and Raven’s incessant pestering about her lack of a love life, she had taken a bunch of grainy, underexposed selfies and posted them up along with some mildly incoherent ramblings about herself. Even in her wine-addled state, Clarke hadn’t expected anything to come out of it. Her poor decision making mostly stemmed from having to prove to herself that she was still capable of putting herself out there after the last few disasters anyway, and she’d done it. Mission accomplished.

The hangover the next day was an expected part of her morning. Bellamy Blake as her 100% perfect match? Not so much.

Honestly, she didn’t even think someone like Bellamy would be on e-harmony. He certainly didn’t look like the type that would need any help getting a date. Not that she’s noticed, or anything. Or he, apparently, considering he hasn’t said a single word about it all day.

“Why are you staring?” He interjects, frowning.

Her cheeks pink at that, and she has to disguise it with an exaggerated cough. “Am _not_.”

“You’re being twitchy,” Bellamy points out, sliding a box of pancake mix onto the counter. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get started on breakfast instead? You know how O gets when she’s hungry.”

“So why are you making pancakes?” Clarke grumbles, pushing it back with a flick of her wrist. “She was up all night cramming for her quiz, she’s _definitely_ going to want eggs instead.”

“Good point,” he concedes, turning his back towards her to put the pancake mix away. Her mouth goes dry at the flex of his shoulder blades under his thin shirt, the curve of his hipbone disappearing under fabric. “Could you hand me the eggs?”

She forces herself to look away, rubs at her cheek in a valiant attempt to dispel the heat. “Why are you asking me when you’re closer?”

He gives an exaggerated sigh, still half-bent over the cabinet and the in the midst of retrieving the utensils. “If I said pretty please, princess, would you do it?”

The nickname doesn’t sting as much as it used to before, but it still makes her scowl anyway. “This is why I didn’t like you before,” Clarke tells him, making sure to slam the refrigerator door extra hard when she spots his grin. She had met him through Octavia when they became roommates in their freshmen year, and of course he had taken an instant dislike towards her, _princess_ falling off his lips all too easily and constantly begrudging her for things she couldn’t help, like her family or the state of her apparent trust fund. The first few months had been rife with tension and a never ending stream of bickering, only giving way to an uneasy sort of acceptance after one too many complaints from Octavia.

“Didn’t,” he muses, waving his spatula over at her. “You like me perfectly fine now, though.”

The carton of eggs jerks free from her hold, sparing her from having to respond until Bellamy comes up behind her and takes it, casting her an incredulous look.

“What is _with_ you?”

“You’re on e-harmony!” She blurts out, wincing at the squeak of her voice.

He blinks, cocking his head at her. “Yeah, well. Octavia set me up a few months back. Why does it matter?”

“ _Because_ ,” she groans, letting her hands land soundly against her thighs. “We– it says you’re my perfect match, okay? And I know you’re going to laugh at me for believing in a stupid, senseless algorithm–”

“I’m not.” He cuts in, impatient. “I wouldn’t, okay? Plus it’s not exactly senseless. I get it.”

She licks her lips, drops back down onto the bar stool. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy goes, absentminded, ducking his head as he slides a chunk of butter onto the pan. “We read the same books. Uh, you prefer documentaries over TV, just like I do.” A wry smile crosses his face at that, gone as quickly as it arrived. “We dislike the same people. For the exact same reasons, mind you.”

“I hated Murphy first.” She says, automatic, gratified at his bark of laughter.

“You did,” he says, sounding almost fond. “See? It’s not that far-fetched.”

He still has his face turned away from her, but the tips of his ears burn red, as if the admission had embarrassed him. Something unfurls in her chest at that, warm and small and hopeful. “So, you’re saying if we had met for the first time on the website, you would have asked me out?”

A beat goes by, the sizzling of the pan obnoxiously loud in the silence. “Yeah,” he says instead, rough, throat bobbing wildly before he reaches for an egg, tapping it against the side of the pan carefully. “Yeah I would.”

“Oh,” she breathes, because, _yeah_ , okay. If someone had asked her a few hours ago if she would consider dating Bellamy, she would have laughed in their face at the sheer absurdity of it all. But it’s different when she’s actually facing the possibility of it, when the thought of it feels like something impossibly large and infinite taking off in her chest. “I would have– I would have said yes, you know.”

He nods, movements sharp and a little jerky, like he’s trying to compose himself before turning over to face her. “Okay,” he says blithely, “how about dinner on Wednesday?”

“Sure.” Clarke manages, biting back the smile inching up her face. The expanse of his neck is mottled red now, and she can make him out grinning at the pan, like a total idiot. She gets on her tiptoes before she can chicken out, brushing her lips against the nape of her neck.

“Wednesday.” She chirps, flouncing off before he can respond.

(And if she spends the entirety of breakfast fighting to keep a smile off her, well. She’s been having a really good morning, okay?)


	34. phlebotomy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: we're really close and i just finished my phlebotomy training now i cant stop staring at your veiny arms???

They find the first-aid kit- untouched, still in its packaging- over by one of the bunkers. **  
**

Clarke actually squeals a little when he unveils the neat row of bandages, rearranges the surgical equipment that wiggled loose from their manhandling. Honestly, he suspects that she would have burst into tears at the sheer novelty of it all if he wasn’t there.

“Relax, princess.” He grouses, shaking out his wet hair and dropping his soaked jacket over the ground, “It’s not like it’s enough for us to last through the winter.”

She beams, balancing the case precariously on the perch of her knee. “There are actual bandages in here. I could stop using rags. And look, they have hypodermic needles.”

“Fascinating,” Bellamy deadpans, shrinking away slightly when he realises she’s twirling one of them between her fingers. “Will you put that away?”

She blinks, a small smile playing at her lips. “I thought we could try them out to pass the time. You know, until the rain lets up.”

“You’re not sticking any of those things in me,” he says darkly, scowling. “I mean it, Clarke.”

Her grin widens, baring the points of her teeth. If Bellamy wasn’t so fucking terrified, he would have probably stopped to appreciate it a little. It wasn’t something he saw often, but he liked it on her. It was toothy, genuine. He hoarded every one of them away carefully, tucked it away into the recesses of his mind so he could call on them whenever things got a little too overwhelming. There wasn’t much that he kept from Clarke anymore, but he carried the weight of her smiles like it was a secret. (It wasn’t so much a secret than it was hope, but he’d never admit it.)

“You’re forgetting that I’m a trained professional.” Clarke goes, prim, poking her tongue from between teeth. “I’ve had phlebotomy training, Bellamy. This is a gross underestimation of my skills.”

“Was that before or after you were put into solitary?” He chirps, innocent.

She narrows her eyes at him, lips pressed into a thin line before her expression turns contemplative. Then, tauntingly, “What, are you scared?”

“Am I– seriously?” He huffs, a dull stab of resentment rushing through him at her triumphant smirk. Bellamy liked to think that he was hard to read- careful when it came to his own interests- but Clarke had took apart every single one of his pieces even before they became co-leaders. Worst, she made it look easy. “Fine. I don’t care.”

Her fingers are gentle when they circle his wrist, thumb reaching up to rub at the skin of his wrist. “You have really prominent veins,” she muses, tapping her nails on the spot where it branches out, “makes this a lot easier for me.”

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.” He remarks coolly, trying to calm the sudden thundering of his pulse. Her hair smells like the shampoo that Monty had concocted just days back, fresh and clean and sweet. It tickles against his jaw, sends a shiver all the way down to his toes.

She makes a frustrated noise, tightens her hold. “Stay still.”

“Just get it over and done with already.” He snarls, resisting the urge to jerk his hand away. It’s suddenly all too much at once, the warmth of her body pressed up against his chilled skin, her breath fanning over his collarbone. His skin burns at every graze of her fingers, a fever trying to break. “Stop stalling.”

She’s quiet for a beat, expression inscrutable before reaching over to cup his jaw in one hand instead, thumb landing heavily over his mouth. “I’m sorry, it’s just– I’m distracted. I’ve never seen this before. How’d you get it?”

He reels back, self-conscious, but not far away enough for to pull away entirely. “My mom left a stapler on the floor when I was kid. I, uh. Thought it would be a good idea to try and swallow a staple bullet.”

“Bellamy Blake, misbehaving?” She says, wry, thumb tracing over the seam of his lips instead. The mere inches between them buzzes with the low, even hum of electricity. It tasted like anticipation and heat, coiling heavily against his chest and making it hard for him to breathe. “I never would have guessed.”

“Shut up.” He says, though the effect is ruined by the breathless quality of his voice. This was– he had never entertained the thought of kissing Clarke Griffin before, but he’s struck by how much he wants to, at the moment.

A sharp pain against his forearm yanks him out of his reverie, stings at his skin and makes him yelp. He catches a glimpse of a red, the ends of her hair brushing up against his collar before she sits back, grinning.

“First try,” she declares, smug, waving the filled needle over at him. “I’ve still got it.”

“Way to distract me, princess.” He breathes, equal parts relieved and disappointed. She seems to have trouble meeting his eye, giving a melodramatic sigh before hopping of the table. “Well, I had to. Because someone’s deathly afraid of needles, but won’t admit it.” Her voice is cheery, nonchalant, but he can make out the tremble running through it, the wobble in her knees when she scoops up the first-aid kit in her grip.

He made Clarke nervous and It’s gratifying to know that she’s just as affected as he is, Bellamy can’t help but think, turning away so she wouldn’t see his smile. The rain has slowed to a faint trickle in the background, a steady, consistent beat that calms him.

He turns to the door, the metal of the bunker door scraping against his palms when he finally manages to boost it open. “We should head back so you can actually use those on someone who needs it.”

“Even with my poor bedside manner?” She teases, emerging from behind him while blinking owlishly at the sudden flare of sunlight.

He shrugs, works to keep his tone casual. “I like your bedside manner.”

The flush that rushes across her face is instantaneous, and yeah, he decides that he really likes this on her, too. “You coming?” He calls out, striding forward before she can respond, resisting the urge to laugh when he hears her impatient snort, the stomp of her boots against wet grass as she tries to catch up. He slows his pace instinctively, offers his hand, albeit cautiously.

She takes it, squeezes his fingers, hard, like she’s trying to tell him something that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to decipher. “Let’s go home, Bellamy.”


	35. the sun and the stars and everything in between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I adopted a kid and you help me take care of them all the time since we’re neighbors, but you came over and got so involved in the kid’s life so much they think that we’re both their parents instead of just me Any version of this for bellarke bc I am trash thank you!

Technically, Bellamy’s not supposed to be here.

They had agreed that heading out on scouting missions- or anywhere outside the camp together, really- was a risk they couldn’t afford. Someone had to stay behind to keep an eye on everything else after all, considering their camp comprised of a bunch of teenagers with a perchance for rule-breaking and blowing things up. (There was also the fact that there was no one else they trusted more than each other, but Clarke’s pretty sure Bellamy would rather be stuck with a month-long latrine duty than admit that.)

But she had _needed_ those herbs from the nearest village for the recent strain of flu going around, and with there being no one else they could spare to accompany her out, Bellamy had volunteered, albeit grudgingly.

(“I could always go alone,” she had pointed out. The scathing look he shoots her in return is all the response she needs.)

It’s a good thing he’s here, she thinks, grim, staring down at the bundle of blankets and the shrieking form underneath it. Because this? This is something Clarke is _not_ equipped to deal with.

Bellamy already has it scooped up in his arms, making soothing noises by its ear to calm it. When he meets her eyes, the look he shoots her is a mix of terror and elation. “Holy fucking shit, princess.”

“Don’t swear in front of the infant,” she says, automatic. He gives an exaggerated eyeroll at that, and it makes her feel normal again. Almost.

The baby gives yet another sharp cry, face flushed pink from wailing. She shrinks away from it instinctively just as Bellamy pulls it closer, bouncing it on his knee as it latches onto his finger, chewing on it. The earnest, open expression on his face makes her breath catch, as does the wide smile gracing his features.

Clarke blinks, scrunches the ends of her jacket into her fists. Something about his smile was making her feel strangely off-kilter, pulse beating out an erratic rhythm against her ribcage.

“The baby’s hungry,” Bellamy beams, wheeling away and through the door, his hand still braced against the baby’s neck gently. “We should be heading back.”

“But,” she falters, launching into a brisk jog to keep up, “what about its parents?”

He swallows, stops in his tracks to assess the trail of blood leading away into the forest, the way the door hangs off its hinges, screaming in the breeze. “I don’t think they’re coming back,” he says, rough. Then, composing himself, “Come on, let’s just get the herbs and go.”

The camp, understandably, dissolves into chaos upon their return with a baby in tow, though the hubbub dies down after Bellamy informs them (in aggressively hushed tones) that whoever’s responsible for waking the baby will be in charge of diaper duty for the whole month, _goddamn it,_ which gives them just enough time to sneak away and to get it settled.

“You should name her,” he tells her after, half-asleep, slumped over one of the tables by the med bay.

Shifting the baby carefully in her arms, (she had volunteered to take her after Bellamy had exhausted himself) she gives a noncommittal shrug. “You do it. You’re the one who helped her while I stood there and floundered.”

“You’re not doing too badly now,” he says, wry, almost a little fond. “And I had my turn. Named Octavia, remember?”

She snorts, lets her head thump back against the wall. “How could I ever forget.”

They call her Theia, and nothing is the same after that.

Naturally, they take charge of her welfare though it’s hard to run a camp when there’s a squealing, constantly-starved-for-attention baby thrown in the mix. They set up a schedule so Theia is constantly watched over, but it’s not like it’s difficult to get any one of the delinquents to do it anyway. Clarke has seen even the most stoic, serious ones getting swayed by her bright gummy smiles, the way her legs are always kicking out like she has places to be.

The decision to situate her in Clarke’s tent, however, means that first few weeks are especially rough; a series of sleepless nights with a shrieking baby and Bellamy by her side, the only one brave enough to stay behind and weather the worst of Theia’s tantrums with her. “It’s not like I haven’t done this before,” he scowls, brings it up every time she even _attempts_ to thank him. Then, softly, like he’s afraid to admit it outside the darkness of her tent, “You’re not in this alone, okay?”

Theia _adores_ him, of course. And it’s hard not to see the appeal when he’s changing her diaper with military-like precision, cooing at her the entire time or marching around and barking order with Theia strapped against his chest in the baby sling Raven fashioned out of seat belts and parachutes. Besides, it’s not like she’s the only who noticed. He’s been the recipient of many admiring stares ever since this started.

(Clarke’s been mostly trying not to think about what it means every time she has to force down a surge of jealousy when it happens.)

Then Theia starts talking, and Clarke might cry a little when her first words are a impertinent _mama_ , followed by a wail when she doesn’t get her milk quite as quickly as she wants it. It’s impossible to keep the stupid, dopey grin off her face after, and Bellamy won’t stop teasing her about it when he finds out.

“What did you expect?” He says, nonchalant, staunchly ignoring her gaze even though the tips of his ears are burning red. “It is _true_.”

 _You mean something to her too_ , she nearly says, but the words stay stuck between her teeth. (She’s not sure what she’ll be insinuating by saying that anyway, and, well. It’s Bellamy and she doesn’t want to risk it.)

In the end, Theia is the one who says it.

They’re discussing the pros and cons of switching her onto solid food when Theia- clearly tired of being ignored- surges up, stubby fingers pressing against Bellamy’s cheek as she shrieks a litany of _dada’s_ that only grow increasingly in pitch until he relents, stroking a hand through her soft thatch of curls. Placated, she sinks back down onto his chest, laying her head against the crook of his neck.

He’s still for a moment, then, disbelievingly, “Did she just– did you–”

“Oh, she did.” Clarke says, mock-solemn, biting at her lip to taper her smile. “Guess that makes you her dad now.”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but she hears the catch in his voice anyway, the slight hitch to his breath. When she finally looks at him, his eyes are wet, a small smile playing against his lips. “Guess that makes us her parents, huh?”

“Oh yeah, and to the other 86, too.” She sighs, slumping down so she can rest her chin against the arc of his shoulder. His breath burns hot against her forehead, her body trembling in response to the proximity but also reluctant to pull away. Bellamy’s soft and warm and _safe_ and if she were braver, she would have, maybe–

He lets loose a gusty sigh, fingers finding hers in the dark. “We did good, right?”

She presses her lips against the soft skin of his neck, tasting of salt and sweat, lets herself consider the possibility of peace someday, of quiet and being with him, with Theia. It doesn’t seem so far away now.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “We’re doing great, Bellamy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've recently cleared most of my prompts and am now lacking in inspiration, so send me some if you guys are so inclined!


	36. truth or dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ‘for some reason our teacher thought it’d be amazing to go on a field trip and after she went to sleep some jock thought it’d be even more amazing to play truth or dare and now my best friend betrayed me and dared me to make out with you, the person i’ve been lowkey in love with for a year’

This is arguably, one of Raven’s worst ideas to date.

“You said you wanted to go for a movie,” he hisses, edging away from the warm stream of beer trickling down from one of the table tops. “Not a  _ party _ .” 

She waves him off, jostles him along with the pointed bump of her shoulder. “Technicalities. Besides, you should be thanking me.”

“And why would I do that?” He goes, dry, biting back a swear when he receives an elbow to the ribs. The close confines of the hotel room meant foot traffic had slowed to a crawl, and it was impossible to get anywhere without someone trodding on your toes or kicking at your heel.

Raven grins, the rim of her beer bottle clinking against teeth. “What, you don’t see her yet?”

He barely manages to eke out a disgruntled,  _ who?  _ before something slams up against him, the flurry of blonde hair obscuring his vision and the warm press of her mouth against his shoulder tipping him off, instantly--

“You made it,” Clarke beams, pulling away far too quickly for his liking. “I was hoping you would.”

His hand goes to her hip unconsciously, steadying her in an all-too-familiar movement that was borne from years and years of familiarity. That was the thing about being best friends; you learned them inside out, knew exactly how you would fit in the curve of their limbs, the dip of their bones.

Though, with Clarke, it was probably because he had been in love with her almost all his life too, but,  _ well _ . Bellamy just-- he tries not to dwell on it. There wasn’t any point in being upset about unrequited feelings anyway, not when he could never see it as a crush or lust or anything like that. What he felt for her went far bigger than that, felt more infinite and absolute than anything he could ever compare it to.

“Raven coerced me into it,” he mutters instead, sagging into her touch, rumbling his approval when her fingers begin to thread themselves absentmindedly into his hair. “I just wanted to stay in and catch a documentary.”

She makes a sympathetic noise, snuggles up against his side. “And you  _ can _ . But only after we say hi to our friends first.”

“I don’t see why we have to.” He grumbles, his voice swallowed up by the blare of music as she leads him further in, fingers clamped over his wrist. It takes them awhile to get there- considering she actually _has_ other friends and keeps getting stopped along the way- but it’s hard to mind when she’s pressed up against him, propping her chin against his shoulder and nuzzling his clavicle. (Drunk Clarke is notoriously affectionate, to say the least. Bellamy’s a big fan.)

They find the rest eventually anyway, sprawled in varying degrees of drunkenness on the ground, passing around a half-empty bottle of tequila. Raven has her feet propped up in Wells’s lap, Monty curled around Miller with his fingers tapping out a beat against the side of his neck. They’re greeted by a series of good-natured cat-calls and heckles when they flop down onto the ground next to them, Bellamy letting his head thump back against the wall before Clarke asks, cheery, “So, what are we playing?”

“Truth or dare,” Raven slurs, chugging down the remains of the tequila in a single fluid motion. “You guys missed the past ten turns, so you all have some catching up to do.”

“I’m not a part of this,” he says, automatic, and he doesn’t duck away quickly enough when Raven reaches over to swipe at his chin, making him scowl.

“You’re playing if you’re sitting here,” she goes, easy as can be. “Clarke, truth or dare?”

The game doesn’t go too badly, despite his doubts. Wells and Monty are mostly harmless, their questions and dares bordering on silly most of the time. Jasper and Miller are trickier though, and Raven is  _ downright  _ confrontational at times, but it’s fun all the same and he’s actually enjoying himself after a few rounds, pleasantly buzzed from the alcohol and from Clarke’s proximity. 

So he’s not expecting it when Raven turns to him, bleary-eyed but smug in a way that makes his gut clench. “Your turn.”

“Dare,” Bellamy decides, out of instinct more than anything else, casting a wary glance over at her.

“Okay,” she goes, without skipping a beat. “I dare you to kiss Clarke.”

A beat goes by, and he can feel her stiffen slightly by his side before relaxing, her fingers picking at the stray thread hanging from his jeans. “That’s oddly specific.” She muses, and he wonders if he’s the only one who can pick up the undercurrent of trepidation in her voice, masked under forced nonchalance. It’s hard to tell, considering his pulse is thundering way too loudly in his ears for him to be sure of anything anymore. “But if that’s what you want.”

He wets his lips, finds her hand in the dark. “Clarke, if you don’t--”

“Bell,” she interjects, soft. “Just kiss me already.”

The laugh that leaves his throat is shaky at best, and he has to steady himself when he slides his palm up to her face. “I’ll keep it professional.”

The corner of her mouth twitches at that. “Clinical.”

“Scientific.” He retorts, ducking down to kiss her before she can respond, keeping it slow,  _ gentle _ \--

Clarke sighs into his mouth, deepens it as her fingers twist in his hair, shattering the remains of his careful control until he’s kissing her exactly like he always wanted to, noses bumping and teeth clacking, all heat and  _ want  _ and desperate, too, because maybe this is as good as it gets, maybe--

She pulls away first, her mouth red and slack, breath warm against his cheek. He can make out someone hollering in the background, a wolf-whistle, too, but he can’t seem to look away, still trying to catch his breath when she leans back, resting her head against his shoulder instead. He catches her elbow, turns her away carefully for some semblance of privacy.

“I wouldn’t have stopped if we didn’t have an audience,” she murmurs, so low that he has to strain to hear her. “I would have-- I’ve wanted to do that for a while now.”

He can’t help the stupid grin that blooms over his face at that, relief staggering and overwhelming all at once, “Really?”

“Shut up,” she smiles, pressing a chaste kiss against the jut of his shoulder, like she can’t help but touch him now that she can. But there’s always been a wealth of patience between them too, a mutual understanding that neither of them would be going anywhere. “I think-- we should talk about this, right? Tomorrow, or when we’ve both sobered up.”

“Yeah,” he tells her, but not before dropping one last kiss in the space between her brows, fleeting and soft and a promise,  _ we have all the time in the world. _ “I’d love to.”


	37. some hard truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: truth serum mushrooms?

It’s not a typical day on earth unless he gets into a fight with Clarke over something or the other- so of _course_ she decides to yell at him about the mushrooms today. **  
**

“Are you crazy?” She hisses, rolling its stem between her fingers.“They could be poisonous, Bellamy! Or completely inedible or even–”

He frowns, plucks it from her fingers. “Relax, princess. They weren’t in Lincoln’s guide of poisonous crap that’s lying around.”

Clarke gives an exaggerated groan at that, planting her hands on her hips. “Oh, and that is supposed to make me feel any better?”

“Nah,” he goes, nonchalant, and before she can react, snatches the mushroom from her fingertips and pops it into his mouth. “Hopefully this will, though.”

She gapes, recovers quickly enough to shoot him a dirty look. “I hope you have all your affairs in order,” she declares, saccharine sweet, as he takes yet another purposefully loud and obnoxious bite.

“Oh, yeah.” He deadpans, falling into step next to her. “Everything goes to Octavia, except for the crushing weight of responsibility that comes with running this camp. That, princess, goes to you.”

“I should be so lucky,” she replies, dry, her gaze assessing and cutting all at once as it roves over him. “If you start feeling sick, or–”

“I’m going to be fine,” Bellamy interjects, impatient, “because I used to eat mushrooms exactly like these back on the ark, okay? I know it’s a huge culture shock for you considering these were only readily available from sector C and below.”

He regrets the words the instant they leave his lips- bringing up their differences in upbringing was a sore spot for Clarke, and also one of the surest ways to ensure that he’d be on the receiving end of her cold shoulder for the next few hours. He turns away, but not quickly enough to miss the wounded expression that flashes across her face.

“Have it your way then.” She declares blithely, spinning on her heel and marching away from him. “Don’t come crying to me when you start foaming at the mouth.”

“I _won’t_ ,” Bellamy calls out, just to be difficult. She flips him off before ducking into the med bay, slamming the makeshift door shut behind her.

He spends the next few hours stewing- well, as much as he can while he’s on wall duty- all while resisting the urge to bitch about the entire situation, his mood only worsening when he accidentally slices his hand open trying to fix the north corner of the wall.

“You need stitches.” Miller states, point-blank, pressing at the bloodied skin with not-so-careful fingers. “Go get Clarke to do it for you.”

He grunts, shakes him off. “She’s mad at me. I’ll just handle it myself.”

His mumbled response sounds suspiciously close to a grudging, _when is she not,_ before he clears his throat, adds, “Well, she’ll still stitch you up anyway. Don’t get all stubborn about this.”

“I don’t want to,” Bellamy glowers, shoving his hands into his pockets and wincing at the flare of pain that courses up his arm. “I fucking hate seeing her mad, okay? I’ll just get O to do it.”

The furrow between Miller’s brows deepens, smile taking on a mocking edge. “Since when do you care about how the princess feels?”  

 _I don’t,_ he means to say, but the words claw at his throat and seizes at his tongue until he’s choking the words out, “I always have.”

If Miller’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, just reaches over to snag the rifle still slung over Bellamy’s shoulder. “Great, now why don’t you go _tell_ her that?”

He licks his lips, a wave of dizziness nearly overwhelming him as his fingers scrabble for purchase by the side of the dropship. “Fuck. I think I might be sick.”

“No kidding.” Miller mutters, and before he can protest, ducks under his extended arm, propping him up carefully before pushing forward.

The entire journey to the med bay is a blur of voices and colors, but he recognizes the cool fingers pressed up against his forehead, poking at the sides of his mouth roughly. Her hair tickles against his jaw, traversing down to his neck, and he finds himself reaching for it unconsciously, rubbing it between his fingers.

“Pretty,” he comments, eyes finally focusing long enough to make out the curve of her smile, the stray eyelash stuck against her cheek. The horror at his confession sets in immediately after, his teeth clamping together instinctively and panic rising–

Clarke actually chuckles at that, hands sliding down to his neck and feeling for his pulse. “God, you must be really sick.”

“Shut up,” he proclaims weakly, pushing up on his elbows. “I think it’s the flu.”

“Really?” She goes, sardonic. “Because my guess is the mushrooms.”

“You’re probably right.” He agrees, automatic, swearing under his breath when she claps her hand over her mouth, giggles.

“I have decided that I like you a lot better once you’ve had your mushrooms.” She teases, pushing him back down gently. “Relax, I’m sure this will all go away when your fever breaks.”

He blinks, words sluggish and slow when he tries to speak. “I’m having a fever?”

She hums in response, fingers wrapping around his wrist and lifting. “There’s nothing much I can do about that, so I’m just going to focus on stitching you up first. Are you going to be a baby about it?”

Bellamy scowls, resists the urge to squirm away. “Probably. I don’t like needles.”

“Idiot,” she says, and he’s not sure if it’s the fever that’s making him imagine the note of fondness in her voice. “So that’s why Miller said you were tracking blood all over the place, adamant on not letting me stitch you up.”

He shakes his head to clear it, teeth clacking against one another as he drops his head back down onto the cool metal of the table. “That’s not why.”

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Clarke murmurs, so soft that he can make out the hum of the lone battery-powered light dangling from the wall. “Tell me why then.”

The groan that leaves his throat is involuntary- either from the pain of the needle slipping under skin or the response that’s pulled from his teeth, he’s not sure- but the words come out slurred anyway, rushed, and he hopes that it’s enough to keep her from making them out.

“Fuck, Clarke. I just hate seeing you mad, okay? Your mouth does this thing where it’s all scrunched up, and you just– you look like you’re going to cry, and it’s the _worst_.” He brings his free hand up to run a palm over his face, habitual at this point, only to remember that it was already smeared with blood. “It bothers me. I don’t know why, but it does, and I hate knowing that I’m the one who caused it.”

A beat goes by, her hands still pressed up against his, thread pulling tight and loosening before she speaks up, hesitant, “It bothers you because as much as it pains you to admit it, you actually _do_ care.”

Then, quietly, “For what it’s worth, I care about you too. More than anything.”

He can’t help the big, dopey grin that settles over his face, exhaustion pulling him under. “You mean it?”

Her fingers go up to thread between his curls, nails soothing against his scalp. “Unfortunately.” She agrees, her voice hitching when he leans into her touch, nuzzles the arch of her wrist. “Go to sleep, Bellamy. I got you.”

“I believe you.” He manages, because god, he does, and the last thing he remembers is the press of her mouth against the space between his brows, barely fluttering against his skin, so light he could have imagined it.


	38. cheese

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “I can’t cook for shit and my mother keeps telling me i’ll never become anything if i can’t even make a proper meal and i somehow stumbled upon your food blog and it has now saved me so many times i just wanted to let you know about my gratitude in this oddly long, ridiculously personal email’

The strange part is, she doesn’t so much as find his blog as much as she stumbles upon it. **  
**

Someone had left his page up on one of the library computers without logging off, and she found herself skimming the page with little interest at first. Clarke had never gotten the hang of the whole cooking thing anyway- having subsisted on takeout and ramen throughout her college years- and had bristled at the exaggerations of how easy his recipes were. Honestly, it seemed a little presumptuous to assume that someone with entirely no cooking experience could whip up something like _rugelach_ , so.

She had tried out the first recipe out of spite and spite alone, the second because she was bored and, well. Needless to say, she was pretty much a convert by the time his blog started gaining traction. (It didn’t hurt that he- or Blake, as stated on his blog- was handsome too, all tanned skin and wide smiles in the few selfies he posted up. So Clarke might have a small crush on her favorite blogger, and may have possibly left a few long, rambly comments on his posts, _shut up_ )

A tiny part of her recognized that he was based in her area, too, but she had never even _considered_ running into him. It was pretty unlikely, considering how many people actually lived here, so it’s not like she ever dwelled on it.

Which is why she’s not exactly sure how to react when she realises he’s standing just two feet away from her.

He catches her staring, grins. “Sorry, did you need to get by?”

“Uh,” Clarke manages, pulling her gaze away from the spray of freckles that his photos did _not_ do justice to. “Kind of?”

Blake tilts his head, brow furrowing. “So, yes?”

“Not– not exactly.” She falters at his confusion, sucks in a sharp breath to compose herself. “I just need to grab some cheese? Uh, the one by your elbow.”

The nod he shoots her is thoughtful, swivelling on his heel so he can consider the options below. “Mozzarella or parmesan?”

Praying that the cool blast of freezer air would cool her burning cheeks, Clarke gives a half-hearted shrug. “Either is fine, I guess.”

“Really?” He smirks over at her, amused. “You sure about that?”

It grates at her a little, feels _condescending_ , almost. She narrows her eyes at him, but his face remains carefully blank, inscrutable. “I don’t know. Is it a habit of yours, going around criticizing everyone’s food choices?”

He’s clearly a little stunned by her reaction but composes himself quickly, giving a low chuckle in response. “No, but then again, people are usually more decisive when it comes to their food.”

“Right.” Clarke goes, working to keep her face stony and impassive as she reaches over to grab at a packet, chucking it into her basket without a backwards glance. _Stupid, egotistical jerk-face_. “I’ll just be on my way then.”

“Hold up, are you seriously mad because I offered some helpful _advice_?” He says through barely stifled laughter, trailing after her as she turns the corner into the next aisle, fingers beating out a careless beat against the shelves. “Because generally, people like when I dispense it.”

“I’m not sure how a _you sure about that_ followed by a eyebrow-raise is considered advice.” She replies, tart. “In fact, I think most people would agree that you were just being kind of a dick.”

“Facetious, probably.” He agrees, grin only growing wider when she directs the force of her glare over at him. “But really, if you had let me finish, I would have told you that–”

“Oh, because you’re such an expert on cooking?” Clarke interjects, swiping the last of the ketchup off the rack and tossing it into her basket viciously. “Well I hate to break it to you, but your falafel waffle recipe was a _tragedy._ Mediterranean slaw was not a good–”

He blinks, fingers stilling against the rack. “You’ve read my blog?”

Swearing under her breath, she turns to face him with a tilt of her chin, absurdly defiant. “Well, I used to, but it turns out the blogger behind it is a humongous–”

“The slaw mixture wasn’t moist enough and the waffle had a weird texture that was more flaky than crunchy.” He recites, squinting at her suspiciously. “Wait a minute. Are you _cgriff9028?_ ”

Her cheeks heat at that, betraying her instantly. “Fine, so I may have recognized you as Blake when you first started talking to me, but–”

“Bellamy.” He says, soft. “Uh. I go by my last name on my blog, but it’s actually– it’s Bellamy.”

She shoves her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, suddenly and stupidly self-conscious all over again. He’s looking at her, all considering and curious through his lashes, and it makes her insides twist. “That doesn’t– god, not everyone wants to hear your opinion all the time, okay? I’d like to think that I’m more than capable of forming my own thoughts on _cheese,_ so.”

He does look contrite at that, leaning back against the shelf when she pretends to busy herself with picking out her jam. “Shit, okay. I can see how it could have came off that way, and I am sorry.” There’s a beat, and almost hesitantly, he adds, “I could make it up to you.”

Clarke arches a brow at him. “What did you have in mind?”

“I was thinking waffles?” Bellamy goes, innocent. “Specifically, the ones with the slaw that you hate so much. I think I’ve perfected the recipe.”

“Only if you’re paying for all the ingredients too.” She blurts, crossing her arms over her chest. His responding smile is fucking _blinding_ , sincere and wide in a way that she can’t help but laugh at, turning her face away quickly before he notices.

“It’s a date.” He agrees, hefting her basket from the ground before setting off alongside her.


	39. moonshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: you’re so attractive but every time you open your mouth i want to strangle you how did you end up in my bed exactly how many tequila shots did i have last night’ au

You see, Clarke was never all _that_ great at holding her alcohol.

Sure, she went to parties on the Ark, but there was always someone else to take care of, or some sort of teenage drama that she was looking to avoid, meaning that the opportunity to get spectacularly drunk never really presented itself. It definitely explained why things always got a little hazy for her after a round of Monty’s celebratory moonshine though, and her instincts usually led her to curl up somewhere and sleep it off.

So, really, Clarke doesn’t think much of it when she wakes up in a cocoon of blankets and warmth, mouth uncomfortably dry and sweat beading against her neck.

Then the weight against her back begins to _shift_ , and that’s when she snaps awake, dislodging herself from the tangle of sheets–

“God.” The voice grumbles, hoarse but familiar in equal measure. “Just go back to sleep already, princess.”

And, _okay,_ she’s definitely awake now.

Yelping, Clarke scrambles for the sheets, reaching to shield herself instinctively. “What the fuck, Bellamy?”

He blinks up at her sleepily, grit caught in lashes and arm still pinned over her hip possessively. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because!” A strangled noise escapes her throat in lieu of words, fingers clutching tighter at the sheets. “I can’t believe– _you’re_ the one on _my_ bed and you’re asking–”

“Your bed?” He interjects, pulling away to prop his chin up in his palms. “You certain about that, princess?”

Her retort dies in her throat at the sight of the weathered stack of books at the foot of the bed, the sleeve of his jacket dangling over the posts, impossibly crumpled and creased.

She licks her lips, swallows. “Oh.”

“You’re the one who came looking for me,” Bellamy says, mild, flopping back down onto his back. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re incredibly pushy, even when you’re only semi-coherent?”

“ _No_ ,” Clarke says a tad forcefully, wincing at the flare of pain that races up her skull at that.

His gaze roves over her, careful and assessing all at once. “Relax,” he says finally, quiet but sincere, too, “the last time I checked, you were still clothed.”

And now that he’s mentioned it, she realises that it is indeed her shirt that is clinging against her skin, and feeling slightly chastised, drops the sheets.

“So we didn’t…?”

(She almost sounds _disappointed_ by this, which is, well. Strange. But she’s not going to dwell on it.)

The corners of his mouth quirk up at that, bracing himself up on his elbows before he reaches for his discarded shirt, slipping it on. “Nah. You passed out pretty quickly after all that yelling.”

Clarke wiggles her sock-clad toes at him, resists the urge to peek when he works at his belt. “What was I yelling about?”

“I don’t know,” Bellamy mutters, bending over to work at his laces, determinedly not looking at her. “You seemed pretty mad. Maybe you just needed to yell at someone and I was the best option around.” Then, a little sardonically, “You do it all the time when you’re sober already anyway.”

She gapes, nearly falls off the bed in her haste to get to her feet. “I don’t _just_ yell at you. I wasn’t looking for you because–”

He bursts into laughter at that, side-stepping past her smoothly. “I was kidding, Clarke. Jeez. Aren’t you supposed to be hungover?”

“No.” Clarke scowls, reining in her sullen expression. It was difficult to explain why it bothered her so much- why it was important that Bellamy understood that he meant more to her than what he just insinuated, why it _mattered_ that he knew. The weight of the words left unsaid sat heavily against her chest, making her flounder and stutter and–

“I was looking for you because I was upset,” she admits, soft, fascinated by the bob of his throat when he meets her eyes, swallows. “And I didn’t think anyone else could understand. I wanted _you_.”

A beat goes by, and he doesn’t say a word, just stares at her, expression inscrutable, long enough to make her fidget. The space between them feels quiet, muffled, holding your breath right before you plunge off a cliff.

For half a second, she think he might kiss her. (She might even _want_ him to.)

Then, in a surprisingly fond gesture, reaches up to tap at her cheek, nails rasping gently against her skin.

“What were you upset about?” He asks, gruff, the small smile playing on his lips morphing into a full-blown one at her non-response. “Betcha still can’t remember though, can you?”

“Shut up.” She replies, prim, grateful that they’re back on familiar territory, swatting at his shoulder in a valiant effort to calm the racing of her pulse. “I swear, this is the last time I go to you for anything.”

(It’s a bald-faced lie. Clarke’s pretty sure he knows it, too.)

“Whatever you say,” he grins, lifting the tent flap and beckoning her out as he goes, “Come on, princess. We got places to be.”


	40. blake's books

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: You awkwardly hit on me when you came into my store (coffee shop, flower shop, bookstore ?) and you thought I was shooting you down but really I was just too stunned by your smile/voice. Before I can say anything you high tailed it out of there. A few weeks later we end up at the same party/friends place/bar and more cute fluffy awkwardness occurs.

Look, Bellamy doesn’t usually keep track of _any_ of his customers. **  
**

Contrary to what his sister thinks, Blake’s Books is actually doing pretty well and gets a steady stream of customers on a day-to-day basis, so it’s not like he has the _time_ to notice anyone in particular.

Well, except for the one blonde girl who’s always constantly hovering by the art books.

The first thing he notices about her is the myriad of pens stuck in her hair, the pen caps peeking out from her messy updo to form a tiny crown of sorts. He’s not going to lie, it’s endearing but distracting too, just like the dimple against her chin, or when her gaze flits over to him whenever he ducks past her to re-stock the books in the young adults section. Sometimes she even _smiles_ at him, and it makes it all that much worse because his natural reaction to that is to do something embarrassing, apparently. (The last time it happened, he dropped an encyclopedia on his foot, and that’s just _one_ of several transgressions.)

It’s just-- Bellamy’s terrible at having crushes, okay? And he definitely has one on this girl, which means he’s definitely not prepared when she actually starts _talking_ to him.

Blinking, he tears his gaze away from the mole by her upper lip. “I’m sorry, what was that?”

She gives a nervous laugh, scuffing the edge of her boot against the linoleum. “I was just asking if you could point me to the self-help section?”

“Right,” he laughs, relaxing. “It’s just by--”

“Because I really need some help on how to approach a gorgeous guy in this bookstore without coming off as creepy,” she rattles off, the words exhaled in a single breath and cheeks pinking immediately after.

“Oh.” Bellamy says dumbly, scrambling to formulate a response. “I’m definitely, uh.”

Her eyes go wide at his fumbling attempts, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red before she gives a shaky laugh, taking a pointed step back. “It’s fine. Forget I said anything at all.”

He barely manages to yelp out a response before she’s ducking behind a shelf and out through the door, the faint tinkle of the bell mocking even to his own ears. “Fuck,” he groans, dropping his head down against the desk.

Octavia, of course, is less than sympathetic when he tells her about it.

“You mean to tell me,” she says, in varying tones of disbelief. “That she was a _regular_ and you didn’t even get her name?”

Bellamy glares, swipes the last of the beer. “It may be a foreign concept for you, O, but I was trying to be professional. I do work at the bookstore, you know.”

“I’m sure that’s it,” Octavia beams, reaching over to pat his head mockingly. “And not because you’re generally inept when it comes to feelings or anything like that.”

“Clearly,” he says, eyeing her reproachfully when she snags the beer back, tipping it into her mouth. It’s been a week and mystery girl has been conspicuously absent, much to his chagrin, which explained why he was here, drinking his sorrows away at the bar his sister worked at. “Isn’t there a rule where you’re supposed to be sober while working?”

She waves him off, wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “My boss doesn’t give a shit. Besides, we just got a whole shipment of these. It’s not like she’ll notice.” Then, brightening, “hey, maybe Clarke can help you look up your mystery girl.”

He makes a face at that. “Pray tell, how is your bar owner boss supposed to help me with that again?”

“She looked up her dad after he was released from prison,” she goes, leaning forward conspiratorially even though they’re the only people in sight. “Clarke’s really resourceful, okay? I bet she’d figure something out for you.”

 _I’m not holding my breath,_ he nearly says, only to be interrupted by the sound of the door thumping shut, the heavy clomp of boots against the ground.

“Figure out what?” A voice chirps, and it’s a good thing he has his elbows firmly planted on the bar top because it’s _her_ and he’s pretty sure he would have hit the ground if it wasn’t for his firm grip.

“Hey, Clarke.” Octavia says, easy. “This is my big brother, Bellamy.”

Recognition flashes across her features, and she hunches down into the confines of the large scarf wrapped around her neck, suddenly sheepish. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Bellamy says, and he can’t help the wide grin that spreads across his face when the tip of her ears go pink. It makes him feel just a little braver. “The store’s been pretty quiet the last few days without you around.”

He can vaguely make out the strangled noise that leaves Octavia’s throat at that, hastily concealed with a cough and a muttered excuse about checking the inventory. It’s probably one of the nicest things she’s ever done for him, though he has no doubt that she has her ear pressed up against the door right this minute.

“Sorry,” Clarke goes, wincing just a little. “I didn’t mean to run out on you like that, but uh. I don’t-- I was embarrassed.”

“Not something you do often?” He asks, wry, and at least that gets her to relax, her body slackening against the door frame.

“Yeah,” she admits, meeting his gaze. “Not ever, actually. But you’re-- you’re really cute, and you have good taste in books, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Shame you didn’t stick around to hear my answer,” he teases.

Clarke gives an indignant scoff, crossing the room in three strides and plopping down next to him. “Hey, I _knew_ where it was going, that’s why--”

“Really? Because I would have said yes.” Bellamy interrupts, mild, relishing the way her mouth drops open into a little o at that, clearly stunned.

She regains her composure quickly, lays her hands in her lap primly though it’s impossible to miss the playful glint in her eye. “Well, the offer’s up, so.”

“Okay,” he says, without missing a beat, pushing forward slightly so that their fingers graze, her skin cool to touch against his. “How about if I ask this time?”

(Her smile is answer enough, but he still holds her breath until she tells him yes anyway.)


	41. summer on earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: could you write something about the first heatwave they (the delinquents) spend on the ground?

Summer arrives, thick and muggy, and with it, a whole new host of complaints courtesy of the eighty or so teenagers clumped together in a single, entirely too-small-space. **  
**

“I’m sun-burned,” Jasper whines, whipping off his shirt so she can make sympathetic noises at the pink stretch of skin spanning over his back, “Clarke, it hurts like _hell._ ”

“Who gets sick during summer?” Monty sniffles, wiping at his nose with the back of his palm. Then, a tad viciously, “stupid _pollen._ All this grass and flowers and--”

“How am I supposed to be drinking my eight glasses of water a day when the boys won’t stop hogging the watering hole?” Octavia snaps, punctuating her statement with a stomp of her foot. “That’s how people get dehydrated, Clarke. And bad skin!”

And that had been from the first _week_ alone. Suffice to say, Clarke was ready for summer to be over. Hell, she’d skip past the season entirely if she had the power to. The only saving grace to this entire clusterfuck was the lake she discovered on one of her scouting trips, small and private enough that she began to look at it as hers and hers alone--

Until Bellamy Blake came along, and _ruined_ it all.

Planting her hands on her hips, she gives him the best scowl she can muster under the circumstances. “What are you even doing here, Bellamy?”

He blinks over at her, pushing the wet strands of hair away from his face. “I could ask you the same thing, princess.”

“I came out here to get some privacy.” She tells him pointedly, hastily averting her gaze away from his bare, glistening chest. “But it turns out you’ve _hijacked_ my hiding place--”

That gets a snort out of him, accompanied with that stupid, smug smile that she hated. “I must have missed the part when you became a proud land-owner, then.” With a furrow of his brow, he adds mockingly, “tell me, how is the market doing these days? I was looking for a bunker, maybe two rooms, somewhere in the--”

“Alright, you don’t have to be a jerk about it.” Clarke interjects, flopping down onto the bank exasperatedly. She could already feel beads of sweat forming against the back of her neck, pooling under her armpits, and it made her irritable and cranky beyond measure. “What are you doing here anyway?”

“Cooling off,” he says quickly, _chipper_ , and if it was anyone else she would have believed them but it’s Bellamy, and she knows how he’s like when he’s lying.

Arching her brow, she waits, refusing to look away.

He stares right back, lips pursed and jaw set, the petulant twist of his mouth only intriguing her further. Then, with a grimace, he relents, mutters, “I was trying to teach myself how to swim.”

She blinks, thrown by this development. “Wait, you don’t know how?”

“Not everyone lived in a sector with access to the public pool, princess.” Bellamy sneers, crossing his arms over her chest. Bringing up their class differences was the easiest way to rile him up, and it often led to pointless, meandering arguments that lasted for _days._

Determined not to be sidetracked, she barrels on. “It’s not that hard, actually. I could teach you how to float.”

“Floating is _not_ swimming.” He argues.

Scoffing, she peels her shirt up and over her head, hiding her smile in the crook of her elbow when she hears him make a strangled noise. “Suit yourself then. It’s not like I’m going to lose sleep over your inability to keep yourself afloat.”

Her pants go off next, and she can feel his gaze pinned somewhere in the vicinity of her forehead instead. It’s strangely chivalrous for someone like Bellamy, but then again, it’s not like she expected less of him.

“Okay,” he says finally, soft, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he drops his gaze down to the water. “Fine. Maybe some pointers would be good.”

“Only took you 84 years to admit that.” She declares brightly, stifling a laugh at the aggravated eye-roll he shoots her. “First step? Ease up.”

The next few hours go by in a blur; the weirdness of being semi-naked around each other fading by the time the first hour went by. It didn’t help that he was impatient and tense as a rock, with Clarke having to hoist him out of the water constantly, sputtering and kicking all while trying to catch his breath.

“You’re terrible,” she tells him after the eighteenth attempt, slumping against his shoulder while he pants into the grass.

“I’m _getting_ there.” Bellamy insists, rucking his fingers through his hair and spraying water droplets everywhere, “come on, one last try.”

Sighing, she follows him back into the water. “If you say so.”

“I know so.” He huffs, rolling out his shoulders, muscles rippling under acres of bronzed, freckled skin, and for some inexplicable reason, she blushes. “Come on, we’re doing this together on three.”

“I won’t be there to haul you up if you start sinking.” Clarke reminds him, and at the sharp jerk of his head, gives in. “Fine, if you’re so sure. Shall I count us off?”

His exhale is shaky, a little ragged. “Uh huh.”

Swallowing, she does, lets her eyelids flutter shut at three--

Then she’s floating, arms outstretched and face pointed up at the sky, and distantly, she can make out the sound of Bellamy whooping accompanied by the lapping of waves, birds crying out above them.

She doesn’t even try to hide her grin this time (it’s not like he can see her anyway), skims her fingers over the water’s surface instead, reaching for him, “fun, right?”

The only response she receives is a sharp jolt of laughter, carefree and triumphant, and she finds herself filing it away for future reference, cataloguing it.

His fingers find hers, lacing together effortlessly as they drift in circles, letting the tide carry them, faces tilted up to the sun.

“Thanks, princess.” He says, so quiet that she could have imagined it, nothing more than a whisper in the trees.


	42. eight years after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: our friends are celebrating something big and i arrived late, but they insist that i should do the first shot (coz they havent seen me in a long time) but i cannot coz im pregnant and no one knows abt it but me, now all of you are eyeing & waiting me what should i do how can i say no, i cant just blurt it out coz its supposed to be a surprise for you" au. 
> 
> Future fic in canon verse! Because why not, really?

Eight years on the ground, and they celebrate the only way the know how: with fifteen cases of moonshine and a dance.

“Maybe this will finally purge the memory of Unity Day for good,” Raven tells her, dusting her hands off on her jeans. “The whole notion of peace was a little hard to swallow when they had to blow up a station to achieve it anyway.”

Clarke shrugs, thinks about the one good Unity Day she had all those years ago; the firelight glinting off Bellamy’s hair, the tilt of his mouth when he told her to _have more than one, then_. “They weren’t all that bad.”

“Please,” Raven goes, dismissive, turning over to smirk at her before adding, “you’re just saying that because you _finally_ get to dance with Bellamy this year. As a couple, that is.”

She bites at the inside of her cheek, tapering her smile. It’s no use anyway, not when her cheeks flame automatically at the mention of them being together, of being happy. “You’re terrible, you know that?”

“You mean I’m _right_ ,” she declares, smug, reaching over to tickle at her ribs playfully. “I take it that you guys are doing great?”

Instinctively, her hands slide down to her stomach, edges soft and full from having adapted to the ground, going from surviving to flourishing.

“Yeah,” she swallows, letting her hands fall to her sides, “better than great, actually.”

Well, as great as it can be now that she’s _pregnant_ , that is. Not that she was going to tell Raven that.

Not when she hadn’t even told _Bellamy._

It’s not like she didn’t want to, but the last few days had been hectic and they barely had time to sleep, let alone have a long, heartfelt conversation about bringing a baby into their lives. Besides, she’s certain that her revelation would possibly lead to a mild panic attack on Bellamy’s part (and on hers, too) so it _probably_ wasn’t a good idea to mention it casually over breakfast.

“Ugh,” Raven goes, making a face. “Your face just got all soft at his name. Gross.”

“You’re gross,” she says, for a lack of a better response. “Come on, we should head on down before Monty starts drinking his weight in moonshine.”

Raven snickers at that, “or maybe your boyfriend.”

She frowns, arching a brow over at her. “You seriously think Bellamy, of all people, will choose to get drunk? I’m surprised he’s not hovering over everyone’s shoulders offering them puke buckets and moist towelettes to clean up after.”

“I don’t think so, I know so.” She replies, looping her arm through Clarke’s so she can pull her along. “Well, at least I’m pretty sure that’s your boyfriend’s terrible singing voice coming from the fire pit.”

Clarke blinks, turning to look, and _oh._

He spots her almost instantaneously, his expression brightening as a sloppy, unrestrained smile slips over his face. “Clarke!” He booms, lurching unsteadily to his feet, “hey. Hey. C’mere, I was looking everywhere for you.”

She can’t help smiling despite herself, sliding into the warmth of his arms. “I see you started on the moonshine without me.”

“I had to,” he tells her, nodding fervently. “Miller and I were playing a game. I didn’t want to lose.”

Humming noncommittally, she takes the cup from him, setting it onto the log behind them. “Okay, drunky.”

“Hey!” Miller hiccups, staggering forward. “Bellamy was supposed to chug that down.” Then at her glare, adds, “it’s the _rules,_ Clarke. I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. And make them up as I go along, sometimes.”

“Right,” she deadpans, steadying him with a firm push against his shoulder, “but consider this: one more sip, and I’m pretty sure he’s keeling over.”

“Drink it for him.” He goes, voice wavering slightly before he’s joined by the others in a disorganized, almost incomprehensible cheer of _drink, drink, drink–_

Scrambling for an appropriate (yet scathing) response, she yelps when Bellamy dislodges himself from her instead, scooping up the cup and downing it in one fell swoop. The crowd roars, her groan lost in all that sound as she grabs ahold of his hand, fighting their way through the crowd.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she grumbles, resting her hand over his hip while he grins down at her, “seriously. What were you thinking?”

Bellamy ducks down to nuzzle the skin of her neck, affectionate, while she fumbles to get the key into the lock. “I’d do anything for you, that’s what.” He declares, sleepy and fucking _earnest_ and she can’t help but feel a rush of love for him, her stupid, _stupid_ boy with his heart too big for his chest and with so much love to give.

He’s going to make a great dad.

Her eyes sting a little at the thought of it, and she ducks down to help unlace his shoes instead, peeling his jacket off his shoulders and pushing him down onto their bed. Mumbling under his breath, he pulls her close once she settles in next to him, burying his face in her hair.

And in the quiet, he asks, “what did you want to talk to me about earlier?”

For a second, she considers telling him, because it’s hard to shake the feeling, sometimes, that the ground was still uncertain and that everything was fleeting, burning bright and fast and fading quickly–

Then his arms tighten around her and she’s reminded of how they’re not the same people anymore, of how they are living in a future where they could be patient with each other, soft and gentle and _good_ ; a future they built together.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” She says instead, dropping a kiss against the hollow of his throat before letting his steady, even breathing lull her to sleep.


	43. of ice cream and slow dancing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: can you pls write bellarke + "i thought i was alone and started dancing like an idiot but then i turned around and you were staring at me" or something along those line?

Another day, another breakup. **  
**

That’s as much as she tells her friends when they call, anyway.

“Seriously guys,” Clarke sighs, wincing at the crick of her neck when she steadies the phone precariously balanced against her shoulder, “I’m _fine._ Have fun at the concert for me, okay?”

There’s a low murmur of dissent over the line, the unmistakable sound of Jasper jabbering frantically in the background before Raven goes, hesitant, “I don’t know. Maybe leaving you alone in the apartment isn’t such a great idea.”

Twisting an unfinished bottle of wine open with her teeth, she snorts, letting the cork fall against the floor. “Honestly? What do you think I’m going to get up to in two hours?”

“Drink all the wine,” Raven says without missing a beat, “mope. Possibly devour Monty’s stash of cheetos.”

She pauses in her search for the wine glasses, “those do sound like perfectly appropriate activities on a Friday night.”

A disgruntled beat passes, followed by a perky voice that is unmistakably Octavia’s, “hey, I could get Bell to go down to the apartment to keep you company, if you want.”

“Octavia, _no_.” Suppressing a groan, she settles for scowling into thin air instead, trying _not_ to think of the infuriating, incurable individual in question. “Trust me, his presence isn’t really going to do me any favors.”

Knowing Bellamy, (whose sole purpose in life was to rile her up) he’d probably come over just so he could smirk and make judgmental, borderline catty comments anyway. And as much as a heated debate could make her feel better at times, all she really wanted right now was to mourn the status of her love life all while clearing out the stuff Niylah left in the apartment.

“I– you guys have fun, okay? Everything’s _fine._ ” She stresses, stern, mustering the appropriate amount of enthusiasm she can under the circumstances before adding, “I’ll see you guys after!”

(She’s never been more relieved to hear the click of the dial tone.)

It starts out easy at first, clearing the surface level of junk Niylah left behind. The half-eaten boxes of tic tacs that she left everywhere, bottles of nail polish in bright, pastel colors that she lined up along Clarke’s vanity. Slinging them into the depths of her garbage bag, she shimmies her hips along to whatever catchy pop song is playing on the radio, taking another gulp at the wine glass set out on her table. She’s warm and _tipsy_ and a little sad, too, nostalgic for something that she can’t seem to find a word for.

Things are trickier the further she digs, and she finds herself setting aside more personal artifacts- Niylah’s jacket, shared photos, bits and pieces of their fleeting relationship- unsure, exactly, about what to do with them. Staring at all the gathered items on her bedspread only made her feel worse, coupled with the fact that she was running low on wine.

Then the next song comes on, the words easy and achingly familiar, and she claps a hand over her mouth, muffling a shocked giggle.

Because, what are the odds, really, that it’d be this song, one Niylah _hated_ with fervent passion, one that she secretly loved?

Clarke doesn’t hide her laugh this time, tilting her head back to sway along with the beat, raising her arms above her head for an exaggerated spin. At the chorus, she throws in a wild wiggle of her hips, screaming along, and–

She stops short at the dry, pointed cough.

Swallowing, she turns to look, feeling a prickly flush work its way up her face at the sight of Bellamy leaning against her doorframe, brows raised, the expression on his face unreadable.

“What?” She snaps, crossing her arms over her chest.

His answering smile is wry, a little teasing but soft, all the same. “Don’t stop on my account.”

“Not if you’re just going to stand there and make fun of me,” Clarke scowls, glaring down at the mounting pile of stuff on her bed, “besides, I have stuff to do anyway.”

She catches him sneaking a look down at the pile too before his head snaps up, the corners of his mouth curling upwards. “Oh come on,” his tone is cajoling, _playful_ in a way that she didn’t think Bellamy could be, “this one is a real headbanger, okay?” He starts twirling his hips, making her gasp with laughter and awkwardly shuffling over to her. “Are you really going to make me dance alone?”

“Oh, god.” She gasps in between fits of laughter, leaning into his touch when he takes her hands, swinging them, “jesus, you’re a terrible dancer.”

He makes an indignant noise, flipping his hair in her face. “Me? That’s rich, Clarke.”

The next one is a fast one, and he tightens his grip on her, cues her to spin at the slower intervals. It’s _fun_ , clumsy, swearing whenever they bumped into the corners of things, laughing against each other’s skin.

His arms are slung loosely around her waist when the song trails off, followed by one that was softer, quiet. She pauses, stares at the bob of his throat before he flicks his gaze over to her.

“So,” she shrugs, looking away. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

Disentangling himself, he takes a pointed step back, fidgeting with the loops of his jeans. “Octavia told me to, uh. Check up on you, I guess.”

For some reason, his nervousness makes her smile. “I thought you wouldn’t care, to be honest.”

His half-shrug is reluctant, _grumpy_ in a way that is so recognizably him that it manages to pull a small laugh out of her. “Well, whatever. I put the ice cream in the freezer.”

“You bought me ice cream?”

“It was along the way,” he goes, stumbling over the words in his haste. The tips of his ears flush red at that, his mouth twisting to grimace at her.

She forgets, sometimes, that Bellamy’s a big brother, that he liked taking care of people he loved; it just surprises her that somehow or the other, she’s managed to end up on that list, that he could care for her in the same capacity that he did for Octavia and Miller, and–

“Stay,” she manages, grasping onto his elbow to keep him from turning away. “We could share the ice cream.”

A beat passes, Bellamy studying her consideringly, the silence weighty and loaded with something she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to understand. (She’d like to think that she’d figure it out one day, figure him out, maybe.)

“Sure,” he says finally, smiling down at her. “It’s not like I have anywhere else to be.”

 


	44. if only for one night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: “i had a one night stand the night before i started a college class and WHOOPS I ACCIDENTALLY BANGED THE PROFESSOR” au + bellarke?? If you can't do the then that's totally ok!! Thanks!"

Her decision to skip out in the middle of the night (which, at the time, seemed like a worldly, mature choice) sounds considerably _stupid_ in the cold light of day. **  
**

“You mean to tell me,” Raven gapes, flicking at the hickey by her shoulder, “that you _left_ without even getting his number?”

Scowling, Clarke slumps back into her seat miserably, tugging at the scarf she wound around her neck hastily this morning. “Honestly, the whole concept of a one night stand seemed like a good idea at first.”

That gets a snort out of Raven, who has resumed attacking her eggs with fervor. “It’s not really considered a one night stand when you’ve been crushing on the guy for weeks.”

“ _One_ week.” She mutters, just to be difficult.

(Fine, to be honest, it was more like three weeks, but _still_. She could never work up the courage to talk to him before anyway, opting to check him out by the bar every other week and moping rather than doing something about it. In the end, it was the shots that Monty had plied her with that pushed her over the edge.

And yet, she somehow managed to screw that up too. Ugh.)

“Tell me tall, dark and handsome lived up to the hype, at least.” Raven demands, planting a hand on her hip.

Clarke flushes, tries valiantly to eviscerate last night’s memories of his low voice in her ear, the flash of teeth against her neck. “It’s Bellamy, actually. That’s his name.”

Raven arches a brow, somehow manages to look disapproving and blase all at once. “Well, that’s a start, right? You could google him or something.”

“I thought about it,” she mumbles, steepling her fingers against her temples. “But what makes you think he’ll even talk to me after I ran out on him?”

“Why did you?” Raven asks, curious. “Was it bad? Like, did he do that thing Finn used to do with his–”

“Yeah, no.” She interjects. Clarke is definitely _not_ in the mood to rehash the whole Finncident (termed by Raven, no less) with anyone at the moment, let alone the one person involved in the entire mess. “It was– it was fucking amazing, okay? And he seems smart and funny and witty but I thought I was trying to prove a point.”

“Right,” Raven says, her expression carefully blank. “What was the point again?”

“That I’m perfectly capable of having hookups without developing feelings for the person!” She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. “It would have gone off without a hitch too, if he wasn’t so,” she pauses, gives an exaggerated twirl of her hand, “I don’t know. An all-around great person, I guess.”

“Ah,” she says, nodding sagely. “Is this the part where you start complaining about how your diamond shoes are too tight?”

Clarke groans, dropping her face down against her pillow. “I hate you.”

“Go to class, babe.” She sighs, with all the weariness of someone who has clearly seen _things._ “You shouldn’t miss it. Besides, you can whine about it some more later.”

And Raven is right, mostly, so Clarke drags herself up and out despite the urge to stay in bed and wallow in self-pity. Besides, it’s the first class of the semester, which means she can get away with zoning out while her professor prattles on about the syllabus.

It’s a relatively popular class, and she recognizes a few familiar faces when she plops herself down along the back row. Jasper waves at her from the front, and a sweet-faced girl whom Clarke is positive is called Harper gives her a small nod from two seats away. Not too bad for an elective, really.

Reluctantly, she drags her attention back to the dour-faced professor up front.

“This course, as you all know, will be conducted twice a week lecture-style with a tutorial session after. There will be a final group project to be presented at the end of the semester, so I will require you to start getting into groups early on. You can look for your T.A. if you have any further questions about this, which is Mr. Blake.” He gestures vaguely to the side of the room, and dutifully, she turns to look, and oh.

Her first coherent thought is, _wait, he wears glasses?_

The second being, _holy fuck, I slept with the T.A._

It’s impossible to mistake him from anyone else, she thinks dimly, trying to rein in her rising sense of horror. The dishevelled set of curls that she spent all night rucking her fingers through, the sharp line of his jaw and the stubble that had scraped along her skin. His freckles are stark under the fluorescent lights of the lecture theatre and she remembers tracing them last night, mumbling about constellations and stars all while he sank into her, making her keen with it.

His eyes land on her for a split second, jolting with awareness almost instantaneously, lips parting and brows raising to his hairline, and for a long, breathless moment, she thinks he might actually wave, acknowledge her in some way.

But then he’s turning away, jaw clenched, and she slinks down in her seat, mortified.

“Hey,” Harper murmurs, casting a cursory glance over at her. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She goes, sneaking a peek over at him. He’s looking right back at her, expression inscrutable and dark and she flushes all over, has to bite at her lip to stifle at a groan. Three whole months of torture. She might actually die from the sexual frustration alone.

“Never better,” Clarke says instead, forcing a smile before finally averting her gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my heart will always belong to this shit- I MEANT SHIP GODDAMN


	45. was doing just fine before I met you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: part two of the T.A fic!

All things considered, the fact that they’ve managed to avoid each other for two whole weeks (despite being in the same class) is _definitely_ a feat or sorts. It’s possible that Clarke is making it happen through sheer force of will or maybe Bellamy’s just more conscientious than most- but, well, yeah. Presently, Clarke’s feeling pretty optimistic about her chances of surviving this semester. **  
**

Well, until she quite _literally_ runs into him during her coffee run, that is.

It’s not so much of a collision, though they still manage to barge into one another with enough force to dislodge her books from her grip, the cup of coffee from his, and the realization that it’s _him_ doesn’t sink in until she’s handing him the half-empty cup, apologizing profusely and insisting that she buy him a fresh one.

“Oh.” She breathes, when it finally clicks.

And he must notice her at the same time that she did for him, because the concern in his eyes is almost immediately replaced by disdain. “It’s fine,” he says, tart, his mouth tugging upwards into a smirk of sorts. “Wouldn’t want you to add bribery to the list of morally ambiguous things you got up to this week, right?”

“Morally _ambiguous_?” She tastes the words out on her tongue, her mouth dropping open to gape when she finally gets what he’s insinuating at. “Hey! I didn’t know you’re my T.A. when I– when _it_ happened!”

He arches a brow at her, scoffs. “Right. Well, that makes it awfully coincidental, doesn’t it?”

Resisting the urge to swear at him, she grabs at his elbow instead, steering him into the small, tucked away alcove by the side. “Look, I’m serious, okay? I didn’t even know you _went_ here when I approached you.”

“I just– I know.” Bellamy deflates, slumping against the wall. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean any of it. I’m just mad that we’re in this situation in the first place.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, hating how the proximity isn’t helping things at all. “I really liked you too.”

That gets another eyebrow raise from him. “Well, where I’m from, if someone likes another person a fair amount and would like to keep seeing them again, they stay the night. Or, you know. Leave a note at least.”

“Right,” Clarke winces, casting a pleading look over at him. “This is going to sound stupid, probably, but would you believe me if I told you I only left because I was trying to prove a point?”

The twitch of his mouth gives him away, an almost smile. “Depends on the point.”

“Uh, that I was capable of doing the casual hookup thing?”

“Ah,” he goes, sounding distinctly amused. “So how did that work out for you?”

“Terrible.” She says, flat, biting back a pleased grin when he laughs. “Turns out, uh, the guy is pretty amazing, so the idea of a no-strings-attached sorta thing fell flat on its face.”

“Shame.” He muses, rocking on the balls of his feet. The compliment seems to have thrown him for a loop- considering how _shy_ he’s being about it now, averting his gaze and smiling a little to himself- and it’s stupid how endeared she is by him.

“Shame.” Clarke echoes, swallowing down the lump of disappointment in her throat. “Uhm. But that’s all there is, I guess.” Pasting on a smile, she adds, “I should go. But thanks for hearing me out.”

He nods, the look in his eyes immeasurably soft. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too.” She manages, going up on her toes. It was meant to be a peck on the cheek, a chaste one; a _sweet_ one, something along the lines of thanking him for being nice about the entire matter at hand, but somehow or another it’s his mouth that meets hers and she’s crumbling at the first graze of his lips, her fingers tangling in his hair automatically to hold him in place.

That prompts a low, dark swear from him, muttered along the edge of her jaw as he mouths at her neck. “ _Fuck_ , Clarke.”

“I know,” she gasps out, pulling back only so she could kiss him again. “This is just– bad? A really, really terrible idea. Maybe I should just drop the class.”

“I don’t want you doing anything you don’t want to do.” He murmurs, exhaling against the arc of her collarbone and making her shiver with it.

She huffs, winding her fingers against the nape of his neck instead. “Oh, you choose _now_ to be considerate?”

His smile is a gleam of teeth in the darkness, his hands a comforting weight on her waist. “I’m considerate all the time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She grumbles, surging up so she could nip at his ear how he liked the last time, his responding growl sending a thrill that she could feel all the way down to her toes. “Can we– can we figure it out later?”

“Okay.” He tells her, winding their fingers together before pushing her back against the wall so he could kiss her properly. “In a bit, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, I’m having a lot of fun writing in this universe, so give me a holler if you guys think I should consider expanding this into a multi-chaptered thing!


	46. amongst other things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "We bumped into each other in the street and you were grinning like a cocky asshole the whole time so i stalked off only to realise i’m wearing your shirt."
> 
> Opted for canon verse angst for this one!

The only reason she catches on in the first place is because he won’t stop _staring_ at her chest. **  
**

Ordinarily, she would just call him out on it; maybe tease him a little too (because it’s funny, that even Bellamy Blake isn’t infallible to the sight of her boobs) but things between them have been tense lately- if the five foot distance and stiff formality _wasn’t_ already an indication- and Clarke really isn’t in the mood to open up a whole new can of worms.

Biting back a cutting remark, she swings her gaze back to the maps on hand instead. “I don’t think it’s wise to venture into Azgeda territory when Roan’s not around.”

“He’ll be back in a few days.” He replies, curt, eyes still trained in the vicinity of her chest. “We can go after.”

Glaring, she settles for folding her arms over them, works to keep her tone frosty, “My eyes are up _here_ , Bellamy.”

That finally gets his attention, his jaw tightening imperceptibly, lip curling upwards to sneer at her. “Well, don’t get any ideas, princess. It’s my shirt that you happen to be wearing, that’s all.”

Her first instinct is to deny it- but upon closer inspection, she recognizes the threadbare blue shirt clinging loosely to her frame, the familiar rip in the hem that she’s seen countless times on him- and so she snaps her mouth shut instead, tries valiantly _not_ to think about the circumstances which allowed her to get ahold of his shirt in the first place.

“Just,” he visibly deflates, scrubbing his palm over his face, “forget it. It’s fine.”

“I’ll wash it and return it after.” She tries, shoving her hands in her pockets to hide the slight tremble working through her limbs. It seems like a good time as any to bring it up, to finally talk to him about everything that happened, so she takes a deep breath, starts off. “I wanted to talk–”

“Doesn’t matter.” He says briskly, averting his gaze away from her, resuming the same business-like, distant demeanour as before. “We should discuss guard patrols.”

Forcing down a swell of irritation, she grinds her teeth in an effort to keep her tone even. “We can talk about that later.”

“No,” he says shortly, nostrils flaring. “I really don’t think we should.”

“So, what?” Clarke snaps, hating the venom in her voice but powerless to stop it all the same, “you get to make that decision for me? We’re just going to sweep this whole thing under the rug?” Her jacket gets caught against her watch when she attempts to wrestle it off, hitting the floor with a thump when she finally wiggles out, “If so, _fuck_ you, Bellamy.”

He catches her wrists when she starts to yank at his shirt, eyes wide. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She lifts her chin, forces a nonchalant shrug. “Returning your shirt. That’s all you care about, right?”

“That’s not what I said.” He growls, all furrowed brow and gritted teeth. “Don’t do this, Clarke.”

“Why?” She counters, pushing closer, suppressing a shiver when she feels his warm breath against her cheek. “It’s nothing _you_ haven’t seen before.”

He flinches, and the rush of satisfaction at having gotten to him dims, the hurt on his face plain. She slides out of his grip, backing up carefully, shame hot against her cheeks and slithering down her spine.

“Clarke,” he says, weary, closing his eyes. “You’re the one who left, after. I think you made it clear that my feelings aren’t exactly reciprocated here.”

 _That’s not why I left!_ She wants to scream, but the words stick in her throat, makes it impossible to speak. _I killed the last few people I slept with,_ she nearly says, shaking. _Everyone I love leaves me_.

“I was scared,” She manages, raw, blinking away the moisture gathering rapidly behind her eyelids. “I didn’t know what to do.”

A beat passes, then two. He stays quiet, the expression on his face inscrutable. The wait is agonizing, and just when she thinks she might actually just get up and leave, he reaches out, bridging the distance between them.

The tension from before drains away instantly; his hand warm against her hers, fingers brushing and linking together, and Clarke’s reminded of a time, not too long ago, when he held her like this too. Releasing a watery laugh, she continues, “I promise you, I’ll definitely return the shirt.”

That gets a small chuckle out of him, at least, his smile rueful. “Keep it, Clarke.”

“It’s yours.” She insists.

Bellamy meets her eye steadily, his grip tightening on her ever so slightly. “Makes no difference.” He goes, his voice light. “Keep it for however long you want it. For when you’re ready.”

(Clarke’s pretty sure he’s not talking about the shirt. A lump rises in her throat, a wave of fondness and love too, and she thinks to herself fiercely, _one day I’ll tell you everything. One day, we could be happy_.)

Her hands shake when she unclasps the watch around her wrist, dropping it into his open palm.

He shoots her a curious look at that, tilting his head over at her. “What’s this for?”

She forces herself to take a deep breath, to look at him with the same steadiness, the same surety that they always had with each other.

“It’s yours, too.” She tells him, closing his fingers around it.

( _The watch_ , she doesn’t say, _amongst other things_.)


	47. of coffee dates and white lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: fake exes bellarke au: 'my new romance-obsessed friend asked me who my last date was with and i was too embarrassed to say i’ve never been on a date so i blurted your name and it turns out they know you’

You see, it all starts because of a single, ill-timed, very _tiny_ white lie. **  
**

“Wait,” Bellamy interjects, eyes wide, the expression on his face cycling from amused, to _bemused_ and finally, all-out horror. “Clarke, you did what now?”

“You heard me the first time!” She wails, tugging at his apron strings to keep him from sprinting away like a startled fawn, “And like I said, it was an _accident_. How was I supposed to know that she’s your sister?”

He groans, rucking his fingers through his hair, eyelid twitching in time to the insistent beep of the coffee machine, “It’s just— you’re fucking kidding, right?

“Would I be doing this if I was?” she snaps, quickly regaining her composure to shoot him a beseeching look when he drops his gaze over to her, brow raised, “I know it’s not ideal or anything, but she’s not going to be in town for long, right?”

Huffing, he crosses his arms over his chest, petulant through and through. “I can’t believe you told my sister that we’re _dating._ ”

The jingle of the bell over the door puts a momentary halt on their conversation, Clarke scuttling over to the cash register to take the order while Bellamy sulks over by the pastry case, rearranging them to his liking until the customer finally bustles out, coffee in hand.

She returns to her perch by the sugar packets, kicking at his ankle to get his attention. “Look, you can be mad at me all you want, but I didn’t do it on purpose, okay? Lincoln didn’t tell me her last name and I didn’t think it would matter at first.”

That gets a snort out of him, the tense slope of his shoulders softening slightly. “Why did you even lie in the first place anyway?”

“Because!” Clarke goes, exhaling a shaky laugh, “She wouldn’t stop _bugging_ me about it. She was talking about setting me up with all these people, and she even mentioned double dates and couple trips—” Breaking off, she rubs at her face, exhausted. “Jesus, Bell. You should have seen how persistent she was.”

“That’s Octavia.” He declares, flat, though he does pat at her shoulder comfortingly. “I just wish you didn’t drag me into this, that’s all.”

“I know,” she mumbles, slumping forward despondently. “I _am_ sorry, you know. Like I said, it just slipped out.”

He turns to look over at her, the look in his eyes considering. A little curious. “So, she asked if you were dating anyone at the moment, and your first instinct was to say that it was me?”

Cheeks coloring, she holds her head high, says with as much nonchalance that she can muster, “I wasn’t thinking straight, okay? We work together. It’s no big deal.”

The corners of his lips quirk up faintly at that, the beginnings of a smirk. “Yeah,” he goes, echoing her, “no big deal.” Then, a little too casually, “So, what? I just back you up when she comes over here to visit?”

“That’ll be great,” she says, relief coursing through her in a rush and pushing her back on her feet. “Thanks, Bell. You’re really doing me a solid here.”

He hums in response, reaching out to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers are startlingly warm against her skin, her breath hitching at the motion.

“Anytime.” He goes, a little too innocent for her liking, before he saunters off.

+

It takes her about a week or so to realize that something’s amiss, though she mostly picks up on it when he brushes up against her for the _fifth_ time in an hour.

Stomping over to him, she whaps at his shoulder with a dishrag, has to actively prevent herself from sputtering when she goes, “What the hell are you up to?”

He blinks at her, wide eyed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do!” She insists, resisting the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. She can feel a wave of heat crawling up her neck, scrambling to find the words to explain to him why his recent proximity has been very, very bad for mental health. “You’re all up in my space, and, and—”

That’s when her foot decides to slip out underneath her, arms pinwheeling to try to catch her fall, followed by the sudden warmth of his hand against her waist hauling her up. She grabs ahold of his forearm instinctively, squeaking, her pulse skittering at the sensation of his breath against her cheek.

“Careful.” He says chidingly, but doesn’t make a move to let go of her. “God, watch where you’re going already, will you?”

Swallowing, she swats at his chest lightly, fingers curling against the back of his neck. “Well, I didn’t think I needed to, considering you’re breathing down my neck all the time.”

He shrugs, cocking his chin over at her, corners of his mouth flitting upwards. “I thought it would be good practice for when Octavia gets here. But I can cut it out, if you want me to.”

And okay, logically, Clarke should say yes, _but_. She hesitates, uncurling herself from him, and _fine_ , maybe it really doesn’t bother her all that much.

“You’re right,” she says briskly, retrieving her dishrag from the floor. “It’s good practice. So, yeah. It’s fine.”

“Good practice,” he agrees, stepping past her, and that’s, that.

+

Octavia finally comes by two weeks after, beaming as she plops herself right by the bar.

“How are you two lovebirds doing?” She teases, dodging out of the way skillfully when Bellamy attempts to ruffle at her hair. “Totally and madly in love yet?”

“Butt out already.” Bellamy grouses, sounding distinctively cranky despite the fact that he has a hand at her waist, stroking the exposed sliver of skin there absentmindedly.

“That’s between the both of us.” Clarke chimes in, leaning into his touch.

(A small part of her contemplates if they’re laying it on a little thick, but then again, they’ve been at it for a few weeks already and she really likes this casual affection thing they have going on. She’s kind of a big fan, to be precise.)

“Fine,” Octavia goes, poking her tongue out from between teeth childishly. “Don’t tell me. At least get me my chai tea latte?”

Shaking her head ruefully, Clarke grabs at a cup, sets it up accordingly. “In a minute.”

She’s just about done when Bellamy wanders over, clucking his tongue disapprovingly just as she perfects her swirl, the sound belying the fondness in his voice when he goes, “How are you still terrible at this?”

“Please,” she says primly, tapping at the side of the cup lightly in hopes of it settling into something resembling a heart, “this is some pretty fine work, okay? It just requires some perspective.”

“Yeah, like twisting your neck ninety degrees.” He says, wry, before grasping onto her elbow gently. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

Clarke shivers when he presses closer, relaxing into the warmth of his chest when he begins to speak, the low, even rumble of his voice soothing even though he’s practically caging her in against the counter. Darting a surreptitious peek over at Octavia, she stifles a gasp when she drops a sly, knowing wink at her in response.

 _I made this happen, didn’t I?_ she mouths, still stupidly smug despite the scowl Clarke directs her way.

Tamping down the urge to make a cutting comment, she settles for eye roll instead, deliberates uncovering the whole ruse right this instant. For some reason, the thought of not being to touch him easily as she could right now makes her heart lurch unsteadily against her chest. (Plus, it’s really hard to summon to willpower to when they’re all wrapped up in each other, his cheek against her temple and his hands interlaced with hers.)

 _Tomorrow_ , she tells herself, before snuggling further back into his warmth, tilting her chin up to listen. After all, it’s no big deal, right?


	48. just a bit of a fixer upper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ‘clarke as a designer and bell as the contractor and they lowkey hate each other bc clarke’s ideas are always expensive and difficult to pull off but then when it comes out it always looks so good and they always make the family to happy and bellamy is lowkey falling in love with her fuck’

Honestly, it was never Bellamy’s intention to get Clarke Griffin to _hate_ him. **  
**

The first time he meets her- sweaty, dishevelled, and with a possibly dislocated thumb- she’s wandering through the corridors of the house he’s working on, completely oblivious to the fact that it’s a cordoned-off area with sharp, pointy things that could possibly maim her at every corner.

Pinching the bridge of his nose with his one good hand, Bellamy bites back a swear. “Listen, M’am. I don’t know what you’re playing at and how you got in, but I’m going to have to escort you off the premises.”

To her credit, she doesn’t even falter, just stares him down, all steel and scrutiny. “ _What_?”

“You heard me,” he continues, bristling when she sweeps her gaze down to his scuffed work boots, the smudges of dirt caked against his knuckles. “I know house flipping is a hobby amongst the bored and filthy rich nowadays, but this one isn’t for amateurs.”

“No,” she huffs, smiling icily over at him. “Apparently it’s only fit for self-entitled assholes.”

To be fair, it’s a little difficult to come back from calling your co-worker a bigoted know-it-all. She spends the next few months making his job a living hell, and Bellamy can’t say he blames her for it. Still, it’s a shame because she’s not all _that_ bad. He discovers that she’s funny and whip-smart too, that she likes to drink her tea black and her hair pinned away from her face when she works, that her laugh is the kind that travels all the way down to his toes and pushes him up and off the floor.

“Or you could always apologize about being a dick before.” Raven tells him, pointed. “It’s not like it’s hard being a functioning human being with a conscience. Revolutionary, I know.”

And she’s right, of course. He knows she is. But it’s not like an apology would make all that much of a difference at this point, so Bellamy’s mostly resigned to this tentative, careful balance they have between them. He’s not holding his breath for the scales to tip in his favor, but he can’t seem to extinguish the small stirring of hope in his chest whenever she so much as smiles at him.

It really doesn’t help that she’s doing it right now, beaming up at him with a kind of fondness that twists his stomach in knots. But that– that’s not the point.

“So what’s the occasion?” he asks, grimacing as the car lurches underfoot, jerking onto the curb before she brings it back onto the road. Clarke’s one of those drivers that believes in the whole practice makes perfect concept, which pretty much means that she thinks it’s justified to get into as much accidents as possible. It’s terrifying, to say the least.

She reaches over to squeeze his shoulder, the brief warmth of her palm distracting him from when she backs the car up into a traffic cone. “You’ll see.”

Bellamy swears when a familiar driveway comes into view, unbuckling his seatbelt just so he can turn over to glare. “For the last time, Clarke. I know you think hardwood floors are a great idea–”

“They’re aesthetically pleasing.” She interjects, frowning.

“But also a _nightmare_ for someone with two dogs and a toddler,” he grumbles, slumping back into his seat. “It’s impractical and expensive and I’m not– I’m not budging on this.”

“That’s why I suggested the carpet.” Clarke chirps, all mock enthusiasm as she drums her fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. “But you vetoed the last three I picked.”

“Because you thought shag carpets were a good idea.”

She huffs. “Forget it. That’s– it’s not why I brought you here anyway. Follow me.”

“And why would I do that?” Bellamy calls out after her retreating back, scowling down at the gravel crunching under his feet. He feels cheated, somehow, though he really shouldn’t be surprised that Clarke Griffin would voluntarily work on a weekend.

Bypassing the minefield of wires still taped to the ground (remnants of last night’s shoot), he takes the steps two at a time, side-stepping into the room with the propped open door. “You in here?”

The first thing he notices are the walls, the star and galaxies and constellations painted on, detailed and ethereal all at once, hovering somewhere between being completely fantastical and realistic. He has a hard time tearing his eyes away from it, fingers unconsciously reaching out to trace ursa minor, the big dipper.

“You said a wallpaper was out of our budget.” She goes, a uncharacteristic hint of tremor in her voice. “So I thought of something else.”

He laughs, takes a step back and towards the center of the room so he can look at it all. “Jesus, Clarke.”

“Is that–what do you think?”

She’s only a head shorter than him, but he still has to tilt his head slightly to meet her eyes. “Since when do you care about what _I_ think?”

“Don’t be stupid.” She says, brisk, turning away resolutely. “We did this together, Bellamy.” There’s a pregnant pause, then almost reluctantly, “You’re– we’re friends, right? Of course I care about what you think.”

The sudden heat that blooms in his chest surprises even him, the faint flicker of hope blazing and becoming infernos, and surely he’s smiling like an idiot now, but it’s not like Bellamy can _help_ himself. “Did you just– we’re friends?”

Her cheeks pink at that, her gaze still fixed on a point above his head. “If you’re going to make me repeat it–”

“I was an asshole when we first met.” He cuts in, firm. “So it’s not like– I wouldn’t blame you if you still hate me, that’s what I’m saying.”

That gets a chuckle out of her, shoulder bumping up companionably against his. “You really were. But, uh. It’s not like I made things any easier either. So it’s not entirely your fault.”

He wets his lips, suddenly and painfully aware of their proximity, the mole by her upper lip taunting him to reach out and press his fingers against it. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“I am, too,” she says, smiling crookedly, the small laugh she makes loud in the space between them, trembling like the erratic beat of a pulse. “You didn’t– you haven’t told me what you think about it, yet.”

Bellamy swallows, taking a pointed step back, the tension snapping away and falling into ribbons at his feet. It feels like relief. It tastes like a missed opportunity. “You’re going to make this kid really fucking happy, Clarke.”

“We,” she murmurs, finally meeting his eyes. “I’m glad.”

He hums in response, bites back the full-blown grin that threatens to show when she ducks her head, shy. It’s not an emotion he ever thought he’d see Clarke Griffin have in reaction to him, but it’s _nice_. “So, now that we’re friends and all. Want to grab some food?”

She gives a dramatic groan, edging out of the room before closing it behind her. “I thought you would never ask.”

“I didn’t think I could before,” Bellamy teases, swiping the keys from her before she can protest, laughing when she pops the back of his head with a flick of her wrist.

“You’re an idiot,” she mutters, fond, pausing so he can fall into step next to her. “We’re good?”

He thinks of the warmth of her skin against his, the twist of her mouth when she smiled. The word _friend_ curling off her tongue like it had been something inevitable and precious all the same, the lilt behind it sounding like the beginning of something. “Yeah,” he manages, following her out into the sunlight. “We’re good.”


	49. downright shakespearean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: "‘i didn’t want to tell my friend who my real date last night was so i just pointed at a random stranger (you) but now they’re storming over to interrogate you and you’re playing along??? okay’ au"

There are three things that Bellamy is absolutely certain of when it comes to Nathan Miller: one, he’s a terrible, raucous drunk. Two, he tends to break out into Shakespearean style monologues when he is; which, while annoying, is mostly tolerable. **  
**

And three? He gets insufferable about Bellamy’s lack of a love life. Which, yeah, is a lot _less_ tolerable.

(He suspects that most of it has to do with how happy Miller is with Bryan right now, almost like he’s _guilty_ about how good he has it going for him. It’s three hundred shades of stupid, but he doubts that anything he could say would convince Miller otherwise.)

It’s a combination of all these factors that leads him to this moment, really, _lying_ his face off about having gone on a date recently.

“Do I know her?” Miller hiccups, breaking the seal off his fourth bottle of beer. “Or him? I feel like I would because you hate new people. You think new people suck. That’s why we’re friends.”

Extricating the bottle from Miller’s grip, he gives an absentminded shrug. “Uh, yeah. One of the regulars here at the bar, actually.”

His eyes go wide at that. “Is it Lincoln? No. Sterling. _Bryan_. Shit, no. That’s my boyfriend.”

“I feel like Bryan would date me,” he muses, busying himself with peeling the label off the bottle. “I mean, if the circumstances were different. We’re both dark-haired and grouchy. We’d make a good team.”

“Ha,” he grunts, swiping the bottle back from him. “You’re funny. So who is it?”

Swallowing, he gives a surreptitious glance throughout the room, finally settling on the blonde in the corner. He’s seen her a few times before, usually alone, pretty in a way that made him sit up straighter and take notice. He’d ask her out if she didn’t glare daggers at anyone who tried remotely to approach her.

“Blonde in the corner,” he says affirmatively, raking his fingers through the bowl of half-empty peanuts. “But yeah, it didn’t work out. Don’t think she enjoyed herself much.”

The scoff he lets out is downright indignant. “She _didn’t?”_

“I mean, yeah, but—” he breaks off when he realizes that Miller’s staring at her, chest puffed out and brows scrunched together, as if steeling himself for a fight. He tries again, “Anyway it’s fine, and—”

But Miller’s already stomping off, leaving a trail of people in his wake and Bellamy gaping, still rooted to his seat.

“Miller!” He hisses, his words lost in the clamor of the bar before he comes to his senses, diving into the crowd and pushing his way through.

He finds him standing by the aforementioned girl’s table, hands waving exaggeratedly while she watches on, brow knitted and clearly confused. Swearing under his breath, he darts forward, grabbing him by his shoulders.

“Sorry,” he winces, shooting her the most apologetic look he can muster while trying valiantly to pull a flailing Miller away, “he’s really drunk.”

The girl opens her mouth, presumably to respond, when Miller bursts out, “I’m telling you, _lady_ , that you made a mistake giving up on all of,” he pauses, shrugging Bellamy off so he could gesture at him vaguely, “ _this_. I mean, he’s a little weird sometimes, probably talked your ear off about history and mythology and constellations and shit. But this guy,” he gets a little misty-eyed at this, which is a tell-tale sign that he’s about to do something crazy, like cry, “this guy is the most earnest, sincere and nerdiest person I know, so. You’re missing out. You really are.”

Gritting his teeth, he tries his best at a nonchalant, breezy tone. “Okay, that’s enough now. Let’s go.”

“Don’t _push_ me. I want to hear what she has to say.”

He darts another glance at her, resists the urge to groan at the unreadable expression on her face. She’s probably pissed off. He would be too, if something crazy like this had ever happened to him.

But then she’s leaning forward, nodding, resting her chin against her hands. “No, you’re right. I was being really unfair, judging him on just a single date like this.”

_What?_

Miller lurches forward at that, nodding fervently. “Right? I bet he brought you to some sort of museum or something, talked your ear off the entire time. I’m always telling him that it’s a terrible date idea, but does he listen? No. Fucking stubborn prick.”

“It wasn’t all that bad,” the girl continues, leaning in conspiratorially while Miller watches on with rapt attention, “but, yeah. I should give him a second chance, right?”

“You should,” he beams, clapping Bellamy on the back. “Save him from having a loveless existence and having to adopt ten cats.”

Scowling, he punches at his arm, a wave of heat clawing up his neck. “I have _a_ cat.”

“Only nine away from becoming a crazy cat man.” He grins, belching right in his face. “Did you get her number? You should. Go get her number, big boy.”

“You’re embarrassing.” He mutters, pushing him off before ducking down to her level. “Sorry about all of this. Uh, my friend is really, really drunk as you can tell. There was a misunderstanding, and he thought you rejected me, so.”

The smile she gives him is wry, lights up her entire face. “I figured, like halfway through that entire speech.”

Grimacing, he rubs at his face, asks, “Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink or something?”

“Sure,” she replies, careful, the edges of her lips curling up into a small smirk. “Though, I think your friend will be really disappointed if you don’t get my number.”

He can’t help it, he laughs, catching her eye when she does the same. Fuck, if he thought she was pretty before, she’s positively radiant when she laughs.

“Yeah,” he agrees, leaning forward on his elbows. “We really shouldn’t disappoint Miller.”

(Turns out her name is Clarke, with an E, and she loves it when he takes her to the museum for the first date, so. Miller can _suck_ it.)


	50. masterchef

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'warring reality show contestants' AU

Honestly, none of this would be happening if he didn’t pick a fight with the pretty blonde on the very first day on set. **  
**

It’s just— well, she was being _stupid_ about the entire endeavour, opting to make soufflé within a twenty minute time frame. He knew she was talented; it was evident in her audition tape, movements deft and sure and eyes bright when she talked about her food, but _still._

He had pretty much told her so when she raced back into the kitchen, ingredients in tow, and she had nearly bitten his head off for it, and that had been the beginning of the end, the single defining moment that had launched a thousand arguments after.

Which would have been _fine_ if that was all, really. Bellamy was used to not being liked at times- it came with the territory, considering he was never shy about sharing his opinions on things- but then the ratings came in, followed by the network, and that was when all hell broke loose.

“God,” he grumbles for the fifth time that day, huffing irritably when yet another powder brush is shoved into his face, “apparently, everyone needs a gimmick these days.”

A sigh is heard somewhere in the vicinity of his left shoulder. “Well, there wouldn’t be a need for one if you didn’t start this entire mess.”

Gaping, he spins on his heel to face her, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Me? If you didn’t react the way you did in the first place, we wouldn’t have to put on this entire charade in the first place!”

“You’re the one who started it, with all your yelling about my soufflé! ” Clarke counters, shooting him with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. He scowls back, briefly lets himself wonder how he had managed to become so attuned to her anger that he knew _exactly_ how her brow would crease when the fighting commenced.

They’re interrupted by the blinding flash of a camera, a staccato clap of hands.

“Just like that,” the photographer beams, re-positioning his camera. “Remember, we’re aiming for warring exes, forced to work together! Will they or won’t they? Are they going to rip each other apart before the salad course?”

And just like that, a temporary truce between Clarke Griffin and Bellamy Blake is established in favor of telling the photographer in question to, quite frankly, shut the _fuck_ up.

+

It’s disconcerting, he realizes, watching himself on TV. It makes him feel strangely self-conscious, as if there was a disconnect between who he really was and the person that was being portrayed on screen.

(Of course, the person on screen was playing the scorned ex-boyfriend of one Clarke Griffin, so therein lay the disconnect he felt. Fucking network.)

Toggling at his remote, he hits the fast forward button, stops when a familiar face fills his screen. Her hair is twisted into the familiar crown of braids, jaw set, and he hits play before he can talk himself out of it.

“Oh,” she says flatly, eyes fixed on the camera. “Right, him. Truth be told, we dated a few years back and it ended badly. I guess you could say that’s why we have all that animosity between us.”

It’s pretty much the same explanation that he gave during his interview, standard and by the book—

“I broke up with him because he was getting to be really clingy.” She continues, leaning back in her seat, and he recognizes the tell-tale signs of excitement practically radiating off her, eyes wide and voice gaining in pitch. “One time, he stood outside my house all night, holding up a boombox, and—”

He throws himself back onto the sofa, a strangled, incredulous noise escaping his throat. Oh, _hell_ no.

+

“I can’t believe you told everyone that I left you at the altar and _abandoned_ you for three whole months!” She hisses, pinching at his hip when he bursts into laughter at that. “It’s not funny! And keep it down, I don’t want the mics to pick this up.”

Shaking his head ruefully, he directs his attention back to the sushi platter they’re working on. “I mean, I would say sorry, but you did tell everyone that I gave you lice when we were dating.”

“That’s child’s play compared to leaving someone at the altar!”

“Hey,” he reminds her, sliding the wasabi over to her waiting hands in a smooth, practiced motion. “May I point out that I appeared to be the desperate loser in the story? You abandoned me for three months and I still came crawling back to you.”

She glowers over at him, hands him his paring knife even before he can ask. “You’re a goddamned menace.”

“That should be my line to you.” He retorts, tossing her the bottle of garnish so she could whip them on in the last twenty seconds, “Do me a favor and lay off all the, hovering-outside-your-house, waiting-for-you references? You’re making me out to sound like a stalker.”

“Only if you tell everyone that I was an adoring girlfriend who baked you brownies and was supportive of all your ventures.” She says, her voice saccharine sweet even through gritted teeth.

The buzzer sounds and they step back from their plates, hands thrust in the air.

Bellamy blinks, staring down at the platter they’ve made. It’s damn well close to perfection especially when compared to the other contestants works, slices of glistening sashimi (his work) arranged artfully (Clarke’s work) against mounds of rice.

He turns to look at her, words poised at the tip of his tongue, _we make a good team_ — only to find her already staring at him.

“Don’t say it,” she mutters, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from showing.

+

Against all odds, they make it to the final four; the last of all partner rounds.

“Okay,” Clarke goes, brisk, “so for my dish, I think I’m going to do a lemon ginger cheesecake. I think it’s pretty fitting, considering the theme is roots and this is the first dessert I ever learned to make.”

He nods, glancing down at her recipe sheet. “Yeah, sounds good. You’re an incredible baker, so you should probably play to your strengths.”

A blush rushes up her cheeks at that, mottling the skin of her neck, and he holds back on a laugh when she ducks her head in an attempt to hide it. It’s ridiculously cute, and he tries not to dwell on the fact that he’s a little more focused on making her go red again rather than anything else.

“Right.” She says, after a beat, composing herself. “And you’re making a chicken dish.”

Giving a hum of agreement, he lays his recipe sheet flat on the counter. “Chicken adobo, to be exact. It’s, uh—”

“A filipino dish,” she interjects, quiet. “Because that’s where your dad’s from.”

He turns to look at her, throat going tight. “You remembered,” he manages, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

Clarke shrugs, jerky, the movement meant to inspire nonchalance but coming off as mostly awkward instead. “I was paying attention, I guess.”

 _To me_ , he doesn’t add, just puts on his apron instead and take his place next to hers, elbows bumping companionably as they set off to work.

+

In the end, he makes it to the final round by the skin of his teeth, barely beating out Clarke to claim his position in the final two.

It’s chaotic enough that he manages to slip away for a second, scurrying down the corridor he last saw her go down after she shed her apron, looking resigned and a little forlorn. The sight of it had made his heart thump unevenly in his chest, and in that moment, he realized that he would have traded places with her in a heartbeat if he could.

He finds her by her room, door propped open with a moving box.

Knocking gently, he leans up against the door frame, manages a breathless, “Hey.”

She brightens when she sees him, unfolding herself from her crouch and walking towards him. “Hey, masterchef. What brings you to my humble abode?”

Bellamy wets his lips, swallows, the only thought coming to mind being, “You know I haven’t won yet.”

“Yet,” she points out, and god, he hopes he’s not imagining the fondness in her eyes at that. “For what it’s worth, you have my vote, Bellamy.”

His laugh is shaky, more of a drawn-out exhale rather than anything. “You know, you would have been my pick if I was watching this at home in my sweats, pigging out and devouring a bowl of tacos.”

“Flatterer,” Clarke teases, pushing at his chest lightly.

“I’m serious.” He tells her, reaching out to graze at her elbow lightly. “I, uh. Probably would have had a huge crush on you too.”

Her brows rise up at that, barely skimming the edges of her hairline. “You would?”

“Yeah,” he manages, even though it feels impossible to talk over his thundering pulse. “You’re smart, and funny. You take no shit. _And_ you’re an amazing cook, to boot? I would have been such a goner for you.”

That gets a laugh out of her, taking a step towards him and peering up at him from her lashes. “Oh.”

Slowly, he lays his hand over her cheek, cradling it in his palm. “Oh,” he echoes, and then she’s kissing him, fervently and a little messy, tongue and teeth and noses bumping.

“Remind me,” she says in between kisses, breathless, leaning over to kiss his smile off his mouth, “do we still hate each other in this narrative?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, pulling her closer before kicking the box propping the door open aside and letting it slam shut, “Whatever you want, Clarke.”


	51. just a carton

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Its 1am and I accidentally egged the wrong house. Sorry?'

Bellamy should have gone back to sleep after he heard the first _thump_ on his roof. **  
**

Really, it would have saved him a whole lot of trouble.

Instead, he got dressed- socks and all- before grabbing the baseball bat from Octavia’s room, skirting the length of the living room on his tiptoes and darting out of the door. In this neighbourhood, disturbances in the middle of the night meant either one of two things: a robbery, or an escapee cat from John Murphy’s backyard- neither which was exciting enough to wake his sister up over anyway, so.

But as it turns out, it’s just a really tiny, really _angry_ blonde girl, who- for some strange, unfathomable reason- is egging his house.

“Hey!” He yells, dropping his baseball bat so he could plant his hands on his hips and glare. “What the—” The words drop off into a yelp when an egg finds its mark by the door, a scant few inches away from his face. “Hey, what the _hell_!”

That, at least, gets her to stop in her tracks. She squints over at him, hair frizzy and glowing silver under the moonlight, her expression considering. Then, sounding almost disappointed, “Shit. You’re not Finn.”

“Finn?” He sputters, dropping his arms back to his sides. “As in, Finn Collins? The guy who looks like he stepped out of an ad for a nineties boyband, _that_ Finn Collins?”

The girl shrugs, shoulders slumping in defeat. “The one and only. He told me that he lives on the street, and—”

He groans, dislodging his glasses in an attempt to wipe at his face. Sighing, he adjusts them before turning his attention back to her. “You’re about two houses off, princess.”

She bristles a little at the nickname, but drops it after chancing a quick peek at the house, her expression morphing into a wince. “Shit. I’m, uh. I know it’s 1am, and I’ve _completely_ wrecked your house and decorations, but could you please not call the cops on me?”

“Tall order for someone who just wrecked all my jack-o-lanterns.” He grumbles, kicking at a chunk of pumpkin that had somehow worked its way underfoot. “My sister is going to flip when she sees all of this tomorrow.”

Her brow quirks up at that, hopeful. “So, does that mean you’re not calling the cops on me tonight?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” He scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. And mostly because he can’t help yourself, “So what did Collins do to you that made you want to egg his house anyway?”

She glances up at him from between her lashes, eyes narrowed, a wary appraisal before relenting. “Turns out, he was cheating on his girlfriend. With, uhm. Me. I mean, I didn’t know at the time when it happened, but yeah. It’s a shitty thing to do.”

It’s not unexpected, really, from what he knows of Finn, but he still lets out a low, commiserating whistle anyway. “You’re right. That is a fucked up thing to do.”

“Right?” She says, brightening. Her smile is fierce, gleaming under the faint glow of the moon, and Bellamy tries not to be affected by the sudden awareness that she’s fucking _gorgeous_. “Is it the most mature thing to do? Probably not. But is it highly satisfying? Definitely.”

Clearing his throat, he gives a rueful shake of his head. “I would commend you on a job well done if it wasn’t for the fact that it was _my_ house you egged.”

“I know.” She says, lips pursed. “A wasted effort, but If it makes you feel any better, I’ll come by and clean it up for you tomorrow.”

“It’s not a wasted effort when you know where he lives now.”

She cocks her chin over at him, brows knitting together into a expression of clear confusion. “But I’m out of eggs.”

And before he can talk himself out of it, he goes, “I think I have a carton or two lying around the back of my fridge.”

The corners of her lips twitch at that, the beginning of a smile. “So, you- a good samaritan, I might add- you’re offering to help me out with my cause?”

He bites at the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, rolling his eyes skyward. “I’m only offering to loan you your necessary tools of destruction, princess.”

“It’s Clarke,” she laughs, trailing after him as he makes his way back to the house. “And c’mon, you should help out! It’s fun, I promise.”

“I don’t know,” he teases. “Are you willing to take the fall for me if we get caught by the cops?”

She wiggles her eyebrows at him, biting at her lip. “Well, no guarantees but I wouldn’t abandon you at the mercy of the cops, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Too risky,” he calls out, leaving her out by the threshold as he ducks in, pushing past the various takeout containers and tupperwares before grasping at the carton. “I’m reconsidering my entire involvement in this venture now.”

“C’mon,” she repeats when he steps out, closing the door shut behind him. “Live a little…?”

“Bellamy.” He manages, pressing the carton into her waiting palms; feeling, strangely, as if the moment was infinitely momentous, somehow. As if this was the start of something bigger than he could ever expect. “Bellamy Blake.”

“Okay then, Bellamy Blake.” Clarke grins, the fingers of her free hand curling around his bicep and tugging, once. “Are we going to keep hanging around, or shall we get going?”

“Fine,” he sighs, letting himself be pulled along, falling into step next to her as the sound of her delighted laugh swirls in his ears, “but only because you asked so nicely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The start of my halloween bash fics! You guys know the drill, send halloween themed prompts to my tumblr and I'll fill them throughout the month of October. <3


	52. it's a halloween miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'we both got dragged to this stuffy Halloween party by our parents wanna kiss in the corner?'

If Clarke had any doubt that it was in fact, Halloween, it would have dissipated at the sight of Bellamy Blake at a _costume_ party. **  
**

“Because Halloween is a time for miracles, see?” She tells him, breathless and a little smug at her own genius, fingers curling into the front of his shirt so she could pull him closer. “And the fact that you’re at this party is a miracle in itself.”

He sighs, steadies her with a hand at her waist. “Princess, I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of Christmas there.”

She frowns. He waits.

“No,” she counters, nipping at the divot of his chin, grinning at his responding full-bodied shiver. “I’m pretty sure that’s Halloween too.”

(So, Clarke might be a little drunk. _Tipsy._ Whatever.)

That gets an impatient grunt out of him, his hand stroking at the exposed sliver of skin by her waist. “Well, I’m finding it a little hard to care when we could be making out now.”

“We are.” She tells him, going back up on her toes so she could kiss him squarely on the lips; the little sigh of content he breathes into her mouth loud in the quiet of the room.

At this point, it’s a little hard to believe that Halloween isn’t the time for miracles, really. Not when she’s making out with her high school arch nemesis in a _supply_ closet, but, well. ‘Tis the season and whatever, right? She would never be making out with Bellamy Blake- too cool for school, rebel without a cause Bellamy Blake- otherwise; the same person whom she had loud, often inappropriate screaming matches with along the school hallways, the bane of her existence throughout junior and senior year.

Still. Admittedly, he’s a pretty great kisser.

(And fine, maybe she’s thought about it once or twice during one of their many arguments, her gaze dropping down to the arch of his mouth more than strictly necessary.)

“Hey,” she murmurs, twisting her fingers into his curls and tugging, “I think I like you a lot better when you’re preoccupied with kissing me than anything else.”

He snorts at that, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “And here I thought you enjoyed our scintillating debates on how the student council budget should be alloted.”

“It’s not a debate when we’re flat-out _yelling_ at each other.”

“Expressing ourselves loudly.” He corrects, with that familiar shit-eating grin. Then, sobering slightly, “Trust me, princess. This isn’t how I expected my night to go either.”

Humming her agreement, she drops her cheek against his collarbone instead, linking her fingers against the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. I didn’t think I would ever see you at a school event, to be honest.”

There’s an awkward, pointed beat before he admits, sounding a little embarrassed. “My little sister wanted to come.”

She can’t help it, she beams a little at that, breaking off into a laugh when he grouches a grumpy, “Shut up.”

“Aww, Bellamy.” She teases, raking her nails through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I never knew. That’s adorable.”

“Cut it out.” He huffs, biting at her lip, hard; the rest of the moment lost in the swipe of tongue and teeth and his fingers bunching at the fabric of her shirt.

They stay like this for a little while longer until the need to breathe proves to be too much and she pulls away first, panting, forehead still lined up against his. “Stop trying to distract me.” She demands, butting her nose against his. He’s warm and solid under her grip, tempting, and it makes her want to sink into his arms, to stay. “You know, I can still think of you as a good brother and hate you, right? Doesn’t change how we feel about each other. It’s not a mutually exclusive thing.”

He goes quiet at that, silence stretching long enough for her to actually feel a little worried before he speaks, sounding a little strange. “I don’t hate you.”

“Uh, years of animosity and arguing seem to say otherwise.”

“Clarke,” he says, and she wonders, a little dazed, if he’s always said her name like this; quiet, weighty. Like it meant something more than it should. “I don’t hate you, okay? I wouldn’t be in here with you if I hated you.”

 _Oh_. She thinks, as his hand comes up to cradle her jaw, fingers brushing her cheekbone. And just like that; it feels like every memory she’s had of him has realigned itself to something completely different, to mean something else entirely; the light press of his thumb against her lip a question and a answer. _Oh. Oh._

His smile is rueful when he says, “You don’t have to say anything, you know. We can forget this ever happened.”

And she knows that’s not what she wants, even with the haze of alcohol clouding over her thoughts. “No,” she manages, turning her face over to kiss at his fingers, soft. “That’s not I want. Just- not right now? Maybe when we’re both a little more sober. Awake.”

She can make out the bob of his throat even in the dark, the bow of his head when he rests his forehead against hers once more. “Yeah, okay.” Then, an afterthought of sorts, “Happy Halloween, Clarke.”

Swallowing, she presses back, pushing them closer together. His breath is warm against her cheek when he says her name again, and god, she can’t believe she’s never noticed the way he would say her name.

 _Halloween,_ she thinks thickly, dropping a chaste kiss against his mouth. _Full of fucking miracles, that one._ “I had a good one, Bellamy.”  


	53. clueless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'I’m on this ghost tour and my guide is really hot and no one has ever looked sexier in hoaky Victorian wear'

Fine, so maybe Clarke will willingly admit that she hasn’t been the most _attentive_ of participants ever since the tour started. **  
**

It’s hard to, really, when she has zero interest in the supernatural and or the history of supposedly ancient mansions, so yeah, she might be zoning out, just a little. The only reason she’s not falling asleep right now is due to Wells’s periodic nudges right against her ribs, the sharp, jabbing pain keeping her on her feet and scowling.

“We’re moving.” He points out, mild, and she grunts in response, reluctantly allows herself to be herded by the rest of the crowd into the next room. “C’mon, I promise this is worth it. I heard it gets really spooky later in the night.”

Resisting the urge to snort, she settles for pinching at his elbow instead. “You so owe me for this.”

He fires back a response at that, one she doesn’t catch because of the sudden appearance of their tour guide; one who she can’t help but notice is, a) unfairly attractive and b) actually managing to pull off _robes_ , which is a massive feat of its own.

Straightening, she adjusts at her top surreptitiously, repositioning herself slightly into a more advantageous position. Wells’s snicker is loud against her ear, smug when he tells her, “Now _you_ owe me.”

“Shut up.” She hisses, batting him away.

It turns out his name is Bellamy (“Yes, that’s my real name. No, I didn’t make it up for reasons related to this tour. I’m not that desperate.”) and he’s a history major, so he knows a whole lot of historical facts related to previous occupants of the house which Clarke tries to nod interestedly at. Operative word being _try_. He has a nice voice though, deep and low and earnest in the way he speaks, which makes it a lot easier to put in _some_ effort.

“Hey,” she says, grabbing at Wells’s sleeve. “I’m going to head up front and flirt with him ineptly. You good here?”

He groans. “I mean, yeah. But could you not distract him to the point when he’s incapable of speech? I was really enjoying his whole speech on the crown molding of this place.”

“I think I would be doing everyone a favor if I got him to stop talking about crown molding.”

“Clarke.”

 _Kidding_ , she mouths, shooting him a grin before pushing forward, trying valiantly to tamp down the sudden onset of nerves. It’s not like Clarke’s never asked anyone out per se, but she’s never been this direct about it either; more of the pursued than the pursuer. That’s probably why every single one of her previous relationships had ended in unmitigated disasters, but she refuses to dwell on it now.

She deserves to have a little fun, okay? And if that meant flirting with the cute tour guide while he was on duty, so be it.

He’s talking about the preservation efforts towards the manor’s library when she draws up, which she figures is a good time as any to cut in.

“So are any of these books _actually_ the books that was recovered, or are they just trick ones that fall off the shelves when we stand too close? Because I did watch ghostbusters,” she points out, working to keep her voice nonchalant. “And I’m generally aware of the kind of stuff that goes down on ghost tours.”

He blinks at that, eyes wide behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. “No, these are the actual books. At least, that’s what I’m not told. I’m not touching them considering I don’t want books back from the 1800s crumbling in my hands the minute I pick them up.”

She arches a brow at him, cocks her chin in her best approximation of a doe-eyed-head-tilt. “So it’s not like you can _verify_ that they’re the actual books. Great. Doesn’t sound suspicious, or anything.”

“No, but you see,” he insists, perking up, “judging from the damage and mold on the spine of the books, well. It’s not hard to make a calculated guess that these are the actual books from that time period.”

“Right,” she nods, biting at her lip to keep her grimace from showing. “So, I take in that your vested interest in all of this has to do with a love for reading, right?”

He frowns, considering. “I mean, yeah,” he goes, shrugging. “But also because the efforts that went into preserving this entire place was seriously cool. Did I tell you about the big fire that went down in the 1850s yet?”

And it goes on exactly like this for the next hour or so- with Clarke firing question after question at him and Bellamy somehow managing to bring it back to a Teachable, Historical moment. Granted, it’s not unwelcome or anything, considering he manages to suck her into a whole conversation about the supposed hauntings of the manor, but it’s not _exactly_ what she hoped for either.

 _He’s_ stupidly endearing and offensively adorable and he’s _not_ getting any of her cues about asking her out. It’s the worst.

“So,” Bellamy says, when they emerge back out into the crisp autumn air, “this was really fun. Uhm, talking to you, that is. People don’t normally listen all that much when I go on and on about this house, usually.”

“It was.” She agrees, because that’s true, except he doesn’t seem to get that she’s flirting with him and she’s not sure how to inform him at this point- well, short of beating him with a placard with the words _date me!!!_ written in size 40 font. “I mean, terrible for my ego, but really fun otherwise.”

His brows furrow together at that, concerned. “Wait, what?”

She takes a deep breath, flexing her fingers out carefully. “Terrible for my ego, because I’ve been trying to hit on you for the past forty minutes, something which you didn’t seem to have picked up on.”

“Oh.” He breathes, a dark flush working its way over his cheeks, the color travelling up to his ears. “ _Oh_.”

“Yeah,” she continues, managing an awkward laugh. “And at the risk of sounding too direct- well, what the hell, considering you didn’t get it the last sixty times I tried- uhm, do you want to go out sometime? As in, a date?”

His laugh is a bright, delighted sound, and she feels herself relaxing instinctively at it. “Yeah, I would like that. I would really, really like that, in fact.”

“Cool.” She replies, biting at her lip to keep her smile from showing. “You aren’t going to get all distracted by your tour after this and forget all about it, are you?”

He makes a noise of indignation at that, teeth flashing when he shoots her yet another smile. “And to think I was just going to ask you for your number to spare you the agony of spending another hour in there, trying to wheedle it out of me.”

“You’re a quick study, Bellamy Blake.” She tells him, grinning, before reaching for his phone to do just that.


	54. conjuring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I invited a bunch of people over to watch a horror movie and you’re the only one that showed up and it’s kind of cute that you hide behind my back every time you hear creepy music.'

“Oh my god,” Clarke huffs, dropping her head back against the sofa when he takes another round at her netflix queue, “will you just pick _one_ already? It’s not like it’s hard.” **  
**

Bellamy gives a wounded sniff at that. “Well, I’m sorry I actually care about the _quality_ of a movie instead of just resigning myself to some lame, b-grade horror film.”

“I want to watch a lame, cheesy b-grade horror film.” She frowns, jostling at his ankle with her toes. “That’s the whole point of Halloween. That’s the _essence_ of this holiday.”

He makes a face at that. “So, you think Halloween is all about watching terrible movies and eating candy corn? Tragic. It’s like you’ve never had a real Halloween celebration before. It’s all about the costumes, then the candy, then grave robbing. In that order.”

She holds back on a snort, settles for a eye-roll before reaching over to grab the laptop balanced precariously on his knees. “Cute. Now, scoot over. I decided and we’re watching The Conjuring.”

They’re close enough for her to feel him stiffen next to her, fingers clamping over the ridge of his knee. “Fine,” he says tightly, slumping over and scowling at the screen. “Whatever, I guess.”

She eyes him consideringly. “What, have you watched it before?”

“No.” He says through gritted teeth.

Pointedly ignoring the quizzical look she shoots him, he stares stonily ahead, gaze fixed on the flickering line of credits.

“Scared?” She guesses, tickling at his ribs.

“ _No_.” He says fiercely, even though his knuckles have gone white from where they are clenched against his knee.

Resisting the urge to burst into laughter at his determined expression, she presses her weight against his shoulder instead, chin resting along the jut of his shoulder. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know. It’s not your fault the rest flaked out. We could always go get a pizza, or something.”

“We’re not going against tradition.” He insists, mouth twisting into a stubborn pout. “It’s a horror movie, Clarke. Sixty minutes of low budget effects and bad dialogue. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

The way he says it leaves no room for argument of any sort, the note of finality clear in his voice. It makes something twist strangely in her chest; throat tight and blinking back tears at his sincerity, his determination and insistence that she spend her Halloween exactly like how she did every year, even without her dad’s presence.

She shouldn’t be surprised because that’s who he is, really, that’s who Bellamy has always been: earnest and caring and fucking _thoughtful,_ even if it was at his own expense. He never pushed her for what she couldn’t give, or what she didn’t have- merely accepted what she could offer; her love and her friendship and her affection and returned it two fold. He didn’t do anything by halves.

Clarke’s pretty sure that’s why she loves him. In the spirit of absolute honesty, well. She’s been in love with him for a while now.

“Okay,” she concedes, pushing closer. “But if you’re going to scream, don’t do it right by my ear.”

“Not happening.” He mutters, tensing further beside her.

The first twenty minutes go by without comment, and she can feel him relax a fraction at the lull of it, the relative quiet.

Then it all goes to shit at the thirty five minute mark.

He flinches at every too loud noise, makes a high, gaspy noise that he tries to suppress whenever a jump-scare occurs. It’ll be cute if she didn’t feel so bad about how terrified he actually is, slumped over in his seat and jaw clenched, even going so far as to shoot her pained smiles once in awhile, checking up on _her_ despite his state of distress.

It’s enough to make her want to slam her laptop shut, insist that they switch to a documentary instead, but she’s also pretty sure that Bellamy’s pride would hinder that whole process.

And so she decides to take a different tack instead, snuggling closer and lacing her fingers against the back of his neck. His curls are soft against her fingers when she brushes them out, lingering along the nape of his neck.

He gives a full-bodied shiver at that, voice going hoarse. “What are you _doing_?”

She blinks up at him, assuming an expression of wide-eyed innocence. “What, you’re not freaked out by all of _this?_ I know I am.”

“I’m fine.” He declares, gruff, throat bobbing when he swallows.

“Well, I’m not.” She says, nonchalant, burying her face against the crook of his neck. “So you’re going to have to exercise your responsibility as my best friend by serving as a pillow for me to hide my face in.”

“Or you could actually just get a pillow.”

“Or you could actually just make yourself useful and _comfort_ me.” She shoots back, exasperated, biting back a smug smile when he relents, fingers rubbing soothingly along her spine, curving to the exposed skin of her hipbone.

It’s her turn to shiver at that, suddenly aware of their proximity, the tantalizing warmth of his mouth. She’d be lying if she said she never thought about kissing Bellamy- her best friend, her constant companion, her person- but she’s never been presented with the opportunity to act on it either, not until now, at least.

His breath fans warmly against her face when he speaks, thumb brushing against the arc of her wrist. The moment feels taut with something she can’t seem to put a name on, dangling on the edge of a precipice. “Your pulse is racing.”

“It’s a scary movie.” She whispers, tilting her face up.

“Terrifying.” He agrees, before ducking down to press a chaste kiss against her mouth, testing, pulling away just as quickly. She releases a shaky breath, lightheaded, before regaining her senses and leaning forward, slotting her lips over his, kissing and kissing him until he laughs against her mouth, cups her face in his hands all while breathing a litany of _finally_ along her lips.

“Took you long enough.” She grumbles, settling herself into his lap so she could kiss him at a better angle, darting her hands under his shirt so she could stroke at his back. “In case you couldn’t tell, this is me telling you that I like you. As in, more than friends. A _lot_ more than friends.”

“Cool,” he goes, giving another breathless laugh, kissing at her nose sweetly. “Me too.”

She gives a chatisting groan. “And yet you never _told_ me about it.”

“I was planning to!” He protests, cheeks flushed and lips swollen and god, this might be her favorite look on him. “It just- I was just looking for the right moment, okay?”

“Dick.” She tells him, fond, sucking his lower lip into her mouth and making him moan with it.

He hums his agreement, winds his fingers into her hair. “You’re making me miss the movie,” he says, smile evident in his voice, _happy_ like she’s never seen him before and she drops her head against his shoulder, grinning.

“You can afford to miss it.” She murmurs, easing the laptop shut with her foot before reaching up to kiss him again, urging him onto his back.

(They miss the entirety of the movie, though Clarke can’t bring herself to complain. It was time well spent, after all.)


	55. meet cute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'we both got in separate bar fights downtown and now we’re waiting in the ER comparing stories'

The ER was a marginally more interesting place to be in when it was Halloween.  **  
**

So far, Bellamy has counted about eight Halloween related injuries, not counting the two that involved pumpkins since that could be categorized under injuries related to Fall, which, incidentally, made him realize how many people actually slipped on _leaves_ during the season.

Shifting the slowly-defrosting bag of peas held in his grip, he settles back against the hard, plastic chair, wincing at the creak of his back at the motion. Yeah, getting into fights when he was eighteen _definitely_ had a whole set of different ramifications from when he got into fights at twenty four.

He’s contemplating if his possibly broken thumb could handle holding up a book when someone settles in the chair next to him, elbow bumping against his sharply and making him yelp with it.

“Jesus,” he huffs out, shifting in his seat to accommodate the latest arrival, “watch where you’re going. You’re in the ER for god’s sake.”

The answering voice is muffled, a little nasal. “I would, if you weren’t taking up all the possible room in this place.”

He turns- mostly so he could deliver a scathing look, maybe even a eye-roll- and has to remind himself not to stare at the sight of the girl with a wad of bloody tissues held up against her nose, knuckles bruised and brow quirked.

She smirks over at him, her gaze assessing as it sweeps from the bruise on his cheek to his propped up arm, “You sound like you have a fun story.”

Snorting, he tilts himself aside pointedly, shifting slightly in the meagre amount of space provided. “I highly doubt it’s a fun story if you end up in a ER by the end of it.”

“No, but it’s how the best ones start.” The girl says, wry. “Was it an accident, or did you head out tonight with the intention to break your thumb?”

He eyes the swollen mess carefully, grimacing before dropping the bag of beans onto his thigh. “You think it’s broken?”

“I know it’s broken.” She says, bossy despite the fact that her current predicament makes her sound like she’s having the world’s worst cold, “I’m a doctor. I know these kind of things.”

“If you’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be using your special doctor privileges to get to the front of the line?”

She rolls her eyes at him. “Not at _this_ hospital.”

“Oh, that sounds believable,” he counters, glancing at the purpling bruise by her eye. Then, feeling suddenly sick, “Did- was it an accident, or-”

“I got into a fight with another girl at a bar.” She injects, hasty, flexing her fingers experimentally before wincing. “Okay, technically I _interrupted_ a fight at a bar, but still. I may have underestimated her right hook.”

Shaking his head ruefully, he sinks back into his seat, biting back a smile. “You mean to say you intercepted it with your face?”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, tapping at the side of his foot with hers. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

The noise that leaves her lips is half grunt, all impatience. “Accident, or?”

“Technically, it _was_ an accident.” He insists, scowling at the dubious brow she raises his way. “Some douche at the bar thought it would be appropriate to comment on my friend’s sexuality. I thought it was appropriate that I punch him in the face.”

That gets an approving nod out of her, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards, amused. “But you’re here, alone.”

He shrugs, bumping his knee against hers. “Well, so are you, hotshot. And besides, he needed to get his boyfriend home anyway. They were both pretty drunk.”

She wrinkles her nose at the nickname, brow furrowing quizzically before she asks, “So, wait. Did you keep your thumb tucked when you punched the guy? Because that’s a sure-fire way to break it.”

“I’m not sure I should be taking tips on punching from a girl who intercepted one with her face.” He tells her, prim, laughing when she pokes her tongue out at him from between a row of bloody teeth.

(Fine, he _did_ , but it’s not like he’s going to tell the cute girl he’s trying to impress that.)

They go back and forth like this for a while, trading stories that get progressively more dramatic at each turn and it’s _fun_ , mindless and easy in a way that made the hours waiting in a sterile room that smelled like antiseptic tolerable. If he wasn’t sure that he wanted to get this girl’s number before, yeah, well, he’s sure now.

He’s psyching himself up to ask when his number finally gets called, and it’s possibly the worst case of timing.

“So,” he says, reluctant, rising to his feet. “This was fun.”

“As fun as it can get while waiting in the ER with a black eye.” She says cheerily, leaning back in her seat. “Don’t go around punching anyone else until you figure out how to make a proper fist.”

His heart sinks a little at that. It’s not a clear _dismissal_ or anything, but it feels a little like one. He manages a tight smile, a awkward wave with the uninjured hand. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime.” Then, so nonchalantly that it can only be deliberate, “So you’re coming back here after so I can sign your cast, right?”

He grins, spirit buoyed by the shy smile blooming on her face, the way she fidgets at her dress while waiting for his response. “Yeah,” he says finally, reaching over to drop the now lukewarm beans into her lap, “help me watch my stuff?”

(She signs her name _Clarke_ on the jut of his wrist, her number along the curve of his broken thumb. All in all, it’s shaping out to be a pretty good Halloween after all.)


	56. just a carton (II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I accidentally egged the wrong house and I’m trying to apologize but it’s one in the morning and you’re pissed off and I’m so sorry" or "oops we both showed up to egg the same house lets bond over a mutual enemy and does this count as a first date?'
> 
> Part two of this [earlier prompt!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4368716/chapters/18880139)

Halloween has always been relatively quiet, unassuming affairs for Bellamy. **  
**

(Well, except for the year Octavia decided to go around stealing everyone’s candy instead of going trick-or-treating, but they don’t talk about that. That little blip aside, Halloween has always been a non-event of sorts for the Blakes. They decorate the house, they eat some candy, and they call it a night. Simple. Boring.)

Which makes it all the more confusing, really, that he’s _actively_ following Clarke Griffin with the sole intention of getting into trouble.

He swears when they approach the familiar facade of the Collin’s house, releases her hand so he can wipe his palms on the fabric of his sweatpants. “Okay, we can egg it from here. You don’t have to get any closer.”

Clarke arches a brow at him, clicking her tongue against teeth in disapproval. “Don’t tell me you’re _scared._ ”

“I’m sorry, do you _actually_ want to be caught and arrested?”

She bats her eyes at him, grinning as she rips open the carton one-handed. “Only if you’re here to bail me out.”

“Cute.” He deadpans, letting loose a long-suffering sigh when the first egg arcs across the lawn, landing against the front porch with a satisfying smack.

“Oh, come on.” She chides, dropping an egg into his open palm. “You wouldn’t have agreed to come along if you didn’t have some sort of beef with Finn. Several grievances? A minor grudge or two?”

He shrugs, taking the egg from her. “I just think he’s a dick, that’s all. Even before what you told me.”

(There’s also that very small, very minor detail where he thinks she’s pretty cute. Coupled with his mother hen instincts and his tendency to fret, and yeah, here he is.)

“Exactly,” she beams, grimacing when her next shot goes wide and smacks against the grass instead, “so there’s some backstory, at least, to you thinking he’s a dick. That’s what I’m asking for here: context.”

“God.” He snorts, winding up his shot. “You’re not going to let it go until I tell you, are you?”

Her teeth glints under the faint light emanating from the street lamps overhead. “I’m unusually persistent. As you can tell.”

“Unfortunately.” He agrees, releasing the egg and watching it splatter against the front door. Clarke gives a celebratory whoop at that, the sound deafening in the quiet of the night and he clamps a hand over her mouth, suppressing her giggles as she collapses into his side.

Bellamy grunts, heaves her back to her feet. “Tell me you’re not drunk?”

“Just a little buzzed.” She smiles, pushing up on her toes as she pushes a stray lock of hair away from his face. He flushes under her touch, has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep it from showing.

Then, a little apprehensively, she asks, “Do we- we go to the same school, right?”

“Probably.” He says, stepping past her to grab at another egg. “It’s not a big town and we both know Collins, at least.” He swallows, gives himself a split-second worth of deliberation before he says it anyway, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before, though. I would have remembered.”

The next egg finds its mark on the porch swing.

“I would have too.” She replies, soft, smiling crookedly over at him before averting her gaze, clearing her throat loudly. “Or maybe we don’t run in the same circles because you’re insanely popular. Like, one of those jock types who considers knowing how to work a keg a sport, you know?”

Bellamy gives a disbelieving chuckle; plays along anyway. “Or maybe we don’t run in the same circles because you’re the picture perfect princess type who has a thousand and one clubs under her belt and cheers on her perfect golden boy boyfriend at sports meets.”

She scowls at that. “I’m not a _cheerleader._ Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

He smirks over at her, plucks the last of the eggs out of its carton. “You’re not denying the rest.”

“It’s just student counsel and the equestrian club.” She says sulkily, slapping at his arm girlishly when he cracks up. “Oh shut up, it’s not like _you’re_ hard to read.”

“You thought I was a dumb _jock_.”

“How else do you get arms like that?” She counters, rolling her eyes when he preens a little at that. “Don’t say that’s how they naturally are.”

“That’s how they naturally are.” He says obediently, watching her line up her shot. “Of course, there’s this whole thing where I egg houses with pretty girls from time to time, so that’s probably where I got my superior upper arm strength.”

Her cheeks are pink, teeth snagging at her bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Flatterer.”

“You started it.” He tells her just as she flicks out her wrist to release the last egg, spinning across the lawn with unnerving accuracy before it strikes the set of glass windchimes dangling by the door, breaking it.

There’s a moment of frozen, horrified silence where they’re just looking at each other before the light in a window flicks on, spurring Bellamy into action.

“Come on!” He hisses, dragging her behind the large elm tree just as the door is yanked open.

It’s impossible to see anything at the angle they’re at, but he’s mostly distracted by how soft and warm she is in his arms, the smell of her citrus shampoo tickling his nose. She curls her fingers over his wrist when the person at the door gives a frustrated shout at the sight of the eggs, foot connecting with glass and scattering the shards.

Carefully, he squeezes at her elbow, reassuring. She responds by burying her face against the curve of his bicep, shoulders shaking from holding in a laugh.

The footsteps grow closer, light sweeping across their feet just as he releases her, pushing at her shoulders as they both break into a run—

“Hey!”

She yells out a curse as they rocket past and he throws in a middle finger to boot, stumbling and pushing their way through the thatch of trees and bushes until they finally emerge in a clearing, back in the yard of his house as she flops down on the ground dramatically.

“Jesus,” she breathes, throwing her arm over her face. “You think he noticed?”

“I don’t know,” he says, mock-grave. “You think we were a little too subtle?”

And that’s what breaks the dam, both of them bursting into peals of laughter; the kind that made his ribs ache and eyes water, the kind that made him feel infinite and too big for his body; a reminder there was a whole world out there that he hadn’t got to see yet.

“I should go,” she says, regretful, when they finally manage to calm themselves down. “My mom’s going to kill me if I miss my curfew.”

“Yeah.” He says, sobering, offering her a hand and pulling her to her feet. “You should go.”

She latches onto his wrist, peering up at him carefully. “I’ll see you at school?”

He stares down at the points of where they’re touching, her thumb on the bones of his wrist and the pale stretch of her skin pressed against his palm. “I mean, I hope so. But this feels like our breakfast club moment, you know? You go off into the night. I go back to bed. We never see each other again.”

That gets an impatient huff out of her. “Now you’re just being dramatic, Bellamy Blake.”

“Theatrical,” he corrects, squeezing at her palm. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”

She rolls her eyes at him, the gesture strangely fond. “Well, I promise you that this is not the last you’re going to be seeing of me, okay? You’ll see. I don’t break my promises.”

“Sure.” He says, dropping her hand and backing up the steps to his porch, “if you say so.”

“I know so.” She insists, her figure receding further into the dark. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy.”

“Night,” he manages, waving his hand limply in the air just as she turns the corner, disappearing out of sight.

(He finds a carton of eggs in his locker the very next day, edges dented from being stuffed haphazardly in, and yeah, the knowledge of Clarke Griffin making good on her promises _definitely_ makes him smile.)


	57. mario and luigi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we team up for the couples contest every year as friends, but this year you're with someone else and I'm definitely Not Jealous and Not Realizing feelings'

Here’s what you have to understand: it wasn’t just a matter of pride. **  
**

It was that Bellamy was messing with tradition. _Their_ tradition. And it left Clarke with a sick, gnawing feeling at the pit of her stomach that she couldn’t find a name for.

(Well, the feeling was in fact _jealousy_ , but she’d rather lodge sticks under her nails then admit that out loud.)

“Whoa,” Monty goes, upon their arrival. His eyes widen comically as he takes her in. “Wait, you and Bellamy _aren’t_ competing in the couples costume contest this year?”

She manages a jerky shrug of her shoulder, swiping the bottle of beer from his grip and taking a swig. “Nope,” she says, popping the _p_ with an exaggerated twist of her mouth. “Someone decided to forgo tradition this year so he could play dress up with his new beau.”

“You’re kidding.” Monty says, disbelief clear in his voice. “Seriously?”

She snorts, crossing her arms over her chest. “See for yourself. There’s Mario and Luigi. Or Bellamy and _Bryan_.”

There’s a beat as Monty considers them, brow furrowed and mouth agape. Then, thoughtfully, “Huh. Has anyone ever told them that they look freakishly alike?”

“That’s what _I_ said!” Clarke huffs, slamming the bottle down on the nearest empty surface. “And I was like, _isn’t it weird that you’re dating someone who looks exactly like yourself, Bellamy_? And he’s all like,” she deepens her voice in a terrible approximation of his voice, “ _don’t be stupid, Clarke. We look nothing alike. Besides, I’m just doing Miller a favor_.”

Monty makes a sympathetic noise at that. “If it makes you feel any better, I think you would have made a much more convincing Luigi.”

“I know.” She grumbles, eyeing Bryan discerningly. “I would have rocked that moustache.”

That earns her a pat on the shoulder, and she leans into it, pouting. There had been some alcohol prior to this, and it left her feeling nostalgic and sad and strangely _lonely,_ as if Bellamy defecting and straying from tradition had meant the end of an era, of sorts.

They had been partners- in almost every sense of the word- for years now, and his absence from her side hurt like a punch in the gut. It was worse watching him with Bryan, smiling and laughing and entirely at ease in a way that she thought he could only be with her. She felt strangely cheated by it, somehow; had been used to being Bellamy’s favorite person and vice versa.

Swallowing, she averts her gaze from them, retrieving her bottle once more. “I’m going to go outside. I can’t stand looking at this.”

The crease in Monty’s brow seems to deepen. “Clarke, if you want to talk—”

“I’m fine.” She insists brightly, pecking him swiftly on the cheek before making her escape into the cool night air.

It’s easier to breathe once she’s outside and she settles on the porch step, nursing her beer. She feels marginally calmer in the quiet, though not any better. If this was any other Halloween, she would have been in there with Bellamy, pressed up against his side as they played beer pong or darts or just talking, low and soft and private, leaning into him as the night dragged on and letting him half-carry her to the car. It makes her eyes sting stupidly, thinking about it.

“Hey,” a voice says, snapping her out of her reverie, and then he’s settling in next to her, smelling overwhelmingly of beer and sweat and that sharp, clean scent that was all Bellamy. “I was wondering where you went.”

She manages a grunt, turning her face away. “Figured you were busy.”

He pauses, and she can practically feel the apprehension rolling off him in waves. “Everything okay?”

“I’m _fine_.” She says tartly, resolutely not looking at him. “Go back to the party. I’m pretty sure your boyfriend is looking for you.”

“My boyfriend,” he says, with exaggerated slowness, sounding almost confused. “Bryan?”

Scoffing, she glances over if only to shoot him a glare. “No, the other guy you came here with.”

Bellamy makes a helpless noise at that. “What are you talking about? We all arrived together, and I _told_ you, I’m doing this as a favor for Miller.”

“Oh, so what?” She demands, cheeks hot with shame at how petulant she sounds. “Now you start dating whomever Miller tells you to date?”

He opens his mouth to argue, jaw twitching with the effort of holding back- but just as she thinks he’s about to speak, he stops, the anger from before replaced by curiosity.

“Clarke,” he says, voice strangely strangled, “are you _jealous_?”

It would be so easy to deny it, really, to laugh it off and go on with their nights as if nothing ever happened, but it’s hard when he’s looking at her like that, pleading and sincere. “A little.” She mumbles, dropping her gaze to her knees. “Actually, uhm. A lot. A whole lot.”

She braces herself for the awkwardness, his stumbling apologies and the speedy departure, but then he’s _laughing_ and—  
  


“Clarke,” he repeats, sounding apologetic and amused all at once. “I don’t think you’ve been listening to me. Bryan’s not my boyfriend. I agreed to go with him as a favor to Miller, because he couldn’t be here.”

Her mouth goes dry at that, and she blinks, tries valiantly to compose herself. “Oh.”

“I didn’t think you would mind so much, about the costumes.” He continues, wry. “Because we would still be going together. I asked you, remember?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you that you couldn’t dress up with someone else.” Clarke points out, impatient. “It’s not like I could be all, _no, Bellamy, I want to monopolize you and—”_

She squeaks at the realization of their proximity, his breath fanning warmly over her face, his grin wide and glowing silver under the moonlight.

“You could tell me that,” he says, with all the seriousness in the world. “I would prefer that, actually.”

Her breath catches at his words, her chest flooding with something warm and bright and good. “Yeah?”

He runs his thumb over the line of her jaw, smiling crookedly over at her. “Yeah.”

“It’s a little late for that, considering.” She tells him, closing her eyes and pressing nearer, feeling his breath stutter in response.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, before he’s finally, _finally_ kissing her, and it’s exactly like how she thought it would be and nothing she’s ever expected, sweet and hot and messy, laughing into each other’s mouths and noses bumping.

“Hey,” she says, after, with their mouths swollen and both a little sleepy from the night’s events, “you know how else you can make it up to me? By coming up with kickass costumes for us for next year.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, carding his fingers through her hair and soothing her to sleep, cheek pressed against his pulse. “You can bet on it.”


	58. just once

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'or, we’re in costume and i know exactly who you are but pretend i don’t so i have an excuse to make out with you just once'

It should be noted that, ordinarily, making out with hot girls in dimly lit stairwells wouldn’t exactly faze him. Bellamy’s been to parties. He’s hooked up with pretty girls _and_ guys. It’s not like it’s a novel concept, or anything. **  
**

But then again, none of those people have been Clarke Griffin.

Well, not that he’s supposed to _know_ that, considering he’s about 80% sure that the only reason this is all happening is because she thinks he’s an attractive stranger in a gladiator costume.

It had been disorientating, really, watching her take him in with no animosity in her eyes whatsoever; dancing in the circle of his arms with her hand flitting over his chest, her hair tickling against his cheek. He had recognized her after, had bit back a surprised remark when she sidled up to him with her fingers curling over his bicep in an unspoken question.

Then they were dancing together, and he had forgotten his doubts for those few minutes, let himself enjoy being with her in a way they could never be before. He’d be lying if he said he never considered it anyway, never wondered about what could have been if they had gotten off on the right foot because it’s _Clarke_ , and—

The next thing he knows, they’re kissing, clumsy and unrestrained as she giggles against his skin, breath warm against his ear when she asks, “Want to get some privacy?”

And that’s how they ended up here, making out lazily in the half darkness with his galea pressed uncomfortably against his jaw and her crescent moon mask perched crookedly against her nose.

“Hey,” she breathes when he falters, pulling back just far enough that their noses bump, “you doing okay there?”

Stroking absently at her cheek, he reaches for her lopsided mask, adjusting it. “I’m fine,” he rasps, shaking his head to clear it slightly. “I’m just— a little surprised, that’s all.”

Her mouth quirks up into a teasing, playful grin. “What, this isn’t something you do often?”

“Not really.” He hedges, shrugging; the rest of his response lost in the press of her mouth when she leans over to kiss him once more, sweet and tasting of cheap vodka, fingers winding in his hair so easily that it almost feels like she’s been doing it for years.

Bellamy groans at that, willpower wavering when she drops another kiss on his chin, the corner of his mouth, breathing out a trembly laugh when her lips find his neck. It’s good, fucking _fantastic_ even, and there’s a small part of him that’s tempted to go on, to slot his mouth over hers and kiss her senseless but he can’t keep picturing her horrified expression after she realizes either, how her face would go tight with shock and—

He pulls away with some effort, swallowing hard at the whine of protest she makes in response. “Hey. We should stop. We have to stop.”

She blinks over at him, bewildered. “Oh. As in…?”

“Not that I’m not interested in, uh, going further with you.” He winces, letting his head fall back against the concrete. “But this is obviously a mistake. Not that I blame you, it was dark and hot, and—”

“I’m not drunk.” She huffs, frowning. “I’m my friend’s ride.”

“That’s not the point.” He sighs, running a palm over his face. The stupid galea is cutting into the sides of his cheeks, making it hard to focus. “God, Clarke. It’s me. _Bellamy._ I know you didn’t realize before, what with it being dark and my helmet and your mask; I mean I didn’t recognize you at first, not right away, but—”

She stares, brow arching up and above the mask at his outburst. “Seriously? God, Bellamy. I knew it was you the whole time. That’s the point. I thought you,” she pauses, then with obvious effort, tries again. “I thought we _finally_ , I don’t know. Got our timing right.”

He gapes at the revelation, at the spots of pink on her cheeks, how she refuses to meet his eye. All this time, they had been wondering the same things about each other, asking the same question in the only way they knew how: in snide remarks and crossed arms, tension and barely concealed stares; circling each other like stars.

He can’t help it, he laughs, reaching up to cup her face at the indignant expression she assumes. It softens at the sight of his smile, pulling at his mouth crookedly. “Thank god,” he announces, fingers working deftly at the knot holding up her mask before unwinding it carefully. “I thought I was the only one and you were driving me fucking _crazy,_ you know that?”

That gets a scowl out of her, her kiss chiding when their lips meet. “Don’t you dare blame this on me, Bellamy Blake. It’s your fault as much as mine.”

“How is this my fault?”

“If you hadn’t interrupted me in the first place, we could still be making out.” She mumbles, her lips curling into a full-blown smile when he finally pulls her mask free, setting it on the ground, tracing the arch of her brows and the sweep of her lids, the bridge of her nose. He can feel her breath stutter against his fingertips.

“Yeah,” Bellamy teases, swooping down to kiss her once more, “but like this, I get to see your pretty face, so. Who’s the winner here, really?”

She laughs at that, eyes bright and smile wide, unbuckling his galea as she tells him, wry, “Fine. I think we both lucked out on this one, Blake.”

(They really did.)


	59. arrested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'you’re a cop here to break up the party but i thought it was a costume and may have made some inappropriate suggestions regarding your handcuffs'

Here’s the thing: there is a certain, specific protocol that comes with dealing with house parties that Bellamy’s _more_ than attuned to. **  
**

It goes like this (and in the exact order): warning at the door, badge, authoritative yelling over whatever electronic music is blasting over the speakers, chaos, and, ending off his night by standing over a random teenager, patting at their back soothingly while they upchuck the contents of their stomach into a trashcan. Standard, at this point.

And this one wouldn’t have been any exception, really, if it wasn’t for the presence of one very drunk blonde who won’t stop _flirting_ with him.

“So I know you use them to arrest, like, real criminals and stuff,” she frowns, contemplative and yet somehow not drunk enough to insinuate at air quotes around the term _real criminals,_ “but, logically, if I were to pay you to do it— would you handcuff me?”

He sighs, has to bite at his cheek to keep from laughing. Exasperation seems like a lot of a safer option to express under the circumstances, though he’d admit that he’s a little flattered by the whole endeavour. “Ma’am, they aren’t toys. I actually use them to arrest- and I quote, _real criminals and stuff.”_

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t call me ma’am. That’s— ageist. Like, you’re making me feel old.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you gave me a name.” He points out, mild. “Or let me do my job.”

The girl pats at his chest, grinning. She has her arms draped over his shoulders in what must be in the weirdest koala hug ever, and it’s proving to be a serious impediment to his ability to do his job. “What are you going to do, officer? Cuff me?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He grumbles, wiggling out of her grip and resting her against the doorframe. “Listen, I’m going to clear out the party and get you a bottle of water, okay? Would you do me a favor and just stay here?”

She blinks over at him, a slow smile spreading over her face. “Well, you have exactly what you need to keep me in place.”

It’s his turn to blush at that, muffling his laugh into the skin of his palm. “Just— don’t fucking move, okay?”

The first thing he does is to unplug the stereo before he takes a lap, assessing the remaining party-goers and calling cabs for the ones who are a little too tipsy to be operating any kind of machinery. No one else seems to be on the same level of drunkenness as the aforementioned girl and they’re surprisingly cooperative for college kids, most of them clearing out within a twenty minute time frame. Still, he’s definitely surprised when he finds her in the exact same place he left her, running her fingers along the rim of an empty beer bottle.

“Here,” he offers, cracking the seal of the bottle he found in the kitchen. “Drink.”

“Uh, I don’t think I’m supposed to be accepting drinks from strangers. Not even fake cops who look really good in their costumes.”

He shakes his head, rueful, has to grab at her elbow when she begins to pitch dangerously. “You know you just witnessed me opening that new bottle five seconds ago, right?”

She hums in response, leaning into his side companionably. “Have you ever thought of padding your cuffs? Because it seems more comfortable that way.”

“That’s the exact opposite of how we want criminals to feel.” He mutters, rubbing at his face. “Could you at _least_ give me a name or an address so I can get you home?”

Beaming up at him, she goes, “Has anyone ever told you that you have really nice teeth? They’re nice. Shiny. Stupidly straight.”

“There’s probably a pun that I could make here about my supposed heterosexuality.” He says dryly, guiding her out of the door with a hand on the small of her back, “But I’m pretty sure you’d miss the point entirely.”

He gets her in the car soon after; lets her fawn over his walkie and the partition and the police-issued sweatshirt draped in the front seat while he roots through her tiny purse, retrieving her ID with her address printed in the back. _Clarke Griffin_ , he reads, _twenty one_. And as it turns out, she doesn’t live too far off, just two blocks away, and he starts the engine before pulling out of the driveway carefully.

“Hey,” she says sleepily, hair sticking up from when she pulled his sweatshirt over her head. “Thanks for doing this, Officer McGee.”

“Again,” he goes, swallowing back a laugh. “I think you’re missing the point where I am an _actual_ cop here.”

They fall into a peaceful lull as he makes the drive up to her place; the silence interrupted by Clarke’s snores in the front seat, the even breaths she takes every few seconds. Bellamy’s definitely hoping for a roommate when he gets there- someone who can check up on her or just _worry_ about her entire state of affairs- but the apartment is empty when he unlocks it haltingly with the key from her purse, his bicep already straining under her weight as he sets her down on the sofa.

She doesn’t stir even after he throws a afghan around her form, setting a glass of water on the coffee table and a bottle of aspirin he found on the kitchen counter. He deliberates waking her for a second, insisting that she take to her own bed- but that seems cruel somehow, and he scrawls off a quick note instead before heading out, closing the door behind him with a soft _click._

The rest of his night is relatively quiet in comparison, dull, even, and he takes his time getting into work the next day, worn out and irritable from not having gotten his usual eight hours.

But as it turns out, there’s someone waiting for him at the station when he gets there.

He tries not to stare at her approach, eyes red-rimmed and still looking a little green from last night, biting at her lip nervously when he arches a questioning brow at her. She’s nervous and the thought of it makes him smile, just a little.

“Hi,” she says, shooting him a wry smile. “So as it turns out, there aren’t a lot of Bellamy’s who are incidentally, also police officers. Makes you really easy to find.”

He makes a face at that, mock-grave. “I’m not sure that’s exactly a good thing here, Clarke.”

She groans at that, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, god. Did I mention that I’m also here to apologize how totally inappropriate I was yesterday? Because if I’m recalling some of the details right, I was pretty fucking terrible. Like, you could sue, I think. I’ll take whatever you have? Community service? Mandated jail time?”

“Cute.” He snorts, trying to keep from giving himself away and just _grinning_ at her, because yeah, he’s definitely not impervious to a cute girl’s charms, okay? “Listen, it’s fine. I’m not going to make you pick up trash for making really bad puns about my handcuffs.”

“Right,” she laughs, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Failing that, uhm. How about dinner instead?”

“Wow.” He smirks, reaching over to poke at her wrist, playful. “How long have you been angling for _that_?”

“My backup plan actually involved taking your jacket hostage, actually. It was going to be like, really dramatic. But also pretty cute.”  

“Nah.” Bellamy tells her, running his fingers down her arm so he could squeeze at her palm, affectionate. “You’re pretty fucking convincing.”

(He never really gets the jacket back, after. Can’t say he minds though, especially not when she’s wearing it.)


	60. costumes and mishaps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'i’m the only one who gets your costume and apparently that makes you wanna rip my clothes off'

This is how it all begins: in the ninth grade, at the school mandated Halloween party held in the gymnasium. **  
**

She’s dressed as Supergirl, has already received five compliments on her cape. He has his arms crossed over his chest, scowling heavily at anyone who even spares him a second glance. The plume of his helmet won’t stop tickling at her nose.

“Your face is going to stay stuck that way if you keep looking like that.” She points out, mimicking the tense, pinched expression on his face.

If anything, his scowl seems to get darker at that. “Don’t tell me how to feel, princess.”

“Supergirl.” She corrects, rolling her eyes. “I’m dressed as Supergirl.”

“Well, now we both know how it feels when people get your costume wrong.” He grumbles, shooting her the stink-eye. “Gladiator. God, what a joke.”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s probably because of the armor.”

“I’m not dressed as some _ordinary_ gladiator,” he says hotly, whirling on to her. “I thought the arrow would be a dead giveaway, but I guess the concept of nuance is lost on some people.”

He plants his hands on his hips, as if daring her to voice her opinion on what his costume likely is. She arches a brow back at him, waits.

“Achilles,” he relents, giving an impatient wave of his fingers. “I’m dressed as Achilles, see? And the arrow—”

“I know who Achilles is.” She cuts in, mild, and before he can say another word, “Your galea is crooked, did you know that?”

He narrows his eyes at her, scoffs, but she catches the impressed, grudging expression on his face anyway. Clarke bites back a laugh, looks away before he can call her out of it.

And _that_ , is how she meets Bellamy Blake.

+

As it turns out, he’s two years her senior and she’s in all of his A.P. classes, and they spend the entire semester squabbling from opposite corners of the room before deciding that it’s a matter of convenience that they just sit next to each other anyway. She gets him his coffee every morning because he’s no fun otherwise and he gets her breakfast because he knows how she gets when she’s hungry. They fight in the corridors between classes and during lunch too, and she only tells him her locker combination because she needs someone to get her books for her after gym, okay?

He goes for her debates, claims they are unstructured and unresearched. She makes fun of him every time he misses a shot at his basketball games. He drives his mom’s Volvo that breaks down every time they turn the corner to her street, and she always spends fifteen minutes trying to look at it before declaring it a lost cause, flopping down on the grassy bank so they could read or doze or occasionally, argue some more.

But she wouldn’t say they’re _friends_ , or anything. Definitely not.

+

Tenth grade and he turns up at her doorstep; hand in hand with his sister and a crumpled garbage bag in the other.

“Trick or treat,” he declares, dangling the bag at her eye-level and shaking obnoxiously, boxes rattling noisily against the plastic. “Cough up the candy, princess.”

Her smile is saccharine when she drops the box of mints into his bag, only growing wider at the quirk of his brow, the disbelief on his face.

“Seriously? That’s it?”

“This is a sugar-free household, Bellamy.” She tells him, smug, covertly dropping the Thin Mints stashed behind her back into Octavia’s outstretched grocery basket instead. “Maybe Julius Caesar could try next door?”

“Julius Caesar thinks you’re full of bull crap.” He says without missing a beat, the upturned corners of his mouth belying his words entirely. Then, long enough that it seemed like an afterthought of sorts, “Nice wig.”

She reaches up to touch at the ends of it, coarse and a little rough under her fingers. “Thanks. You don’t think it’s a little childish to be dressed as a Disney character?”

His laugh is soft, pitched low as if he meant only for her to hear it. “Not when it’s something as iconic as Kim Possible. You look good.”

She can feel a flush rising from her neck, staining her cheeks. “Thanks. Anyone asked if you’re going for a toga party yet?”

“Thirteen.” He beams, full of false cheer, and she can’t help but laugh at that, can’t help but feel a little relieved that they’re back on familiar ground of sorts; teasing and mocking and trying to out-snark the other.

“Aim for twenty this year.” She grins, pressing her weight back against the doorframe. “Happy Halloween, Bellamy Blake.”

He makes a face at that. “You have the worst candy, Clarke Griffin.”

(She leaves a pack of Reese’s pieces in his locker the next day. He doesn’t bring it up and neither does she, but there’s a pack of M&Ms waiting on her desk the day after anyway.)

+

“Uh.” Clarke squints over at him, wrinkling her nose. “Nordic viking, right?”

He loops his arm over her shoulders at that, pulling her close and pressing a kiss against her temple. Friendly. Companionable. A little drunk, probably, and she relaxes into his grip, snuggling against his chest. “This is why I like you, Griffin,” he declares, a lazy smirk edging onto his lips, “you get it.”

“What, did everyone mistake you for a fur trapper this time?”

He gives a disapproving groan, chin resting against the top of her curls. “Pirate.”

“Oh, the audacity.” She deadpans, words trailing off into a shriek when he tickles at her ribs mercilessly, chasing after her even as she breaks free, his laughter trailing her the entire way home.

+

She decides on a grand gesture the year she discovers she’s more than a little in love with Bellamy Blake.

It requires some planning, a little sneaking around too, but it all comes together in the end when she’s standing on his porch with her hood drawn up and over her, shivering slightly in the breeze as she waits for him to get the door.

“Okay,” he grins, flinging the door open with a dramatic flourish. “You’re going to have a really tough time figuring this one out. It’s a little unexpected of me.”

She gives him a cursory glance, cocking her chin what she hopes is an expression of Deep Contemplation. “Hmm. Hawkeye.”

“Ha,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “C’mon, you’re not even trying. Does this bow look like it’s made out of reinforced steel? Or like, anything remotely modern?”

“Well, no, because it’s a hunk of styrofoam.”

He almost looks a little wounded by that. “High density plastic, Clarke.”

Biting back a smile, she takes a step closer, curling her fingers in the lapels of his shirt. “Uh. Legolas? Did you do something to your ears?”

“I don’t even _have_ pointy ears.” He mutters, clearly exasperated. “Fine, if you’re not going to take this seriously, then I’ll—”

Swallowing, she drops her makeshift cloak before she can chicken out, grimacing just a little when her fingers scrape against the edges of the pin holding it together. Her dramatic reveal is met by silence on Bellamy’s part, eyes widening comically as he takes her in.

“I might die of embarrassment if you don’t say something in like, the next five minutes.” She announces, adjusting the bodice of her dress carefully, blushing when his gaze drops to the significant amount of cleavage she’s showing, wetting his lips.

“Uh,” he manages, shaking his head as if to clear it. “How?”

“Octavia.” She shrugs, giving a nervous chuckle. “Uhm, this was supposed to be a grand gesture, okay? Like a, let’s-go-as-a-couple-together for Halloween this year, sort of thing. But I got the costume really last minute and I had to _rent_ it a size too small—”

He gives a strangled laugh at that, ducking his head down to rest it against hers. “So what I’m hearing is that you went through all this trouble to tell me, in a very dramatic fashion, that you really _like_ me?”

Her cheeks flame at that, and she swats at his shoulder to create some distance, scowling. “Well I’m sorry if my efforts—”

He swallows the rest of her response with the press of his mouth, sweet and soft and good and she melts into it, fingers twisting into his hair to pull him closer, the kiss ratcheting higher in intensity when he grabs at her hips, scrunching at the fabric of her skirts while she works at the laces of his shirt, laughing.

“Uhm,” he pauses, panting hard, his smile lopsided and just fucking eager, “have I told you how much I liked this dress?”

“I figured.” She murmurs, closing the distance to nip at his bottom lip teasingly. “I’m not exactly surprised that historical figures get you hot.”

“Maid Marian isn’t just a historical figure,” he goes, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear and, god, she’s suddenly reminded of their first Halloween all those years ago- with him talking to her just like this, bossy and grudgingly impressed and fascinated all at once, and it makes her eyes sting, just a little, at the thought of how far they’ve come. “She’s a popular focus in feminist fiction too, okay? You would have totally dressed up as her without any motivation.”

She nudges her nose against his, dropping her head to nuzzle at his neck, affectionate, breathing in the familiar scent of soap and musk and _Bellamy._

“Yeah,” she manages, grinning, biting at him until he crushes her to his chest, a muttered curse tickling against her ear, “trust me. I know who Maid Marian is, Bell.”


	61. matched

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'bellarke for mortal enemies accidentally showing up in matching costumes every fucking year, please?'

Her first year of college brings about the following things: a 3.9 GPA, the dreaded freshman fifteen, and a nemesis. **  
**

(The latter being the most unexpected. _And_ the most unwelcome.)

His name is Bellamy Blake, and it all happens in the split second it takes for him to utter a soft, disapproving scoff in the middle of her speech on censorship policies.

She stops short at the sound, crushing her meticulously written note cards in her fingers. “I’m _sorry_ , do you have a problem with this?”

He snorts, somehow manages to convey defiance and smug superiority all at once with the tilt of his chin. “Even if I did, I highly doubt you’d let me express it without attempting to shut me down at least twice.” Then, as if smirking at his own cleverness, “Pretty ironic judging from your topic of choice, princess.”

“Well, I think it’s hilarious that you think so,” she says, beaming with mock enthusiasm, “considering _you’re_ the one who disrupted me mid-speech to share _your_ opinion on the topic. But, please. Do go on.”

They regard each other in tense, fraught silence, eyes narrowed and arms crossed, and just like that, a rivalry is born; interactions antagonistic and unpleasant, arguments hissed between teeth or shouted down corridors.

And it would have been easy if it had just _stayed_ that way, really; if Halloween hadn’t come around and turned everything on its head.

The first time it happens, it’s at a costume party hosted by a Alpha Tau Omega.

He scowls upon her arrival, adjusting the metal plating on his left arm; the bleeding red star painted over the dingy silver exterior serving as a testament to his poor art skills. “Oh, hell no. Did you do this on purpose?”

“Me?” She counters, shifting her Captain America shield to her other arm. “I’m convinced that _you_ did this just to spite me.”

It goes on just like this the rest of the night; spent fielding people’s compliments about how good they look together, and _hold on, it wasn’t planned?_ Bellamy grows progressively grumpier at the queries. Clarke, vaguely exasperated and sulky. The end of the night comes as a relief for the both of them, and by then she had chalked the entire incident up to a single, entirely too unpleasant coincidence.

But then it just _keeps_ happening.

There’s the party she goes to as Watson, only to be informed that her Sherlock is already waiting for her by the pool table, pipe in hand. Then there is her stint as Catwoman with Bellamy making a sudden appearance as Batman, followed by her one attempt to be ironic when she dresses up as a salt shaker because the costumes are meant to be food-themed, only for him to show up as a pepper shaker.

Honestly, she would be furious about the whole endeavour if she wasn’t sure that her costume this year is distinctly fool-proof. She had checked with multiple sources, did the required research. Clarke is _not_ being upstaged. Not this year, at least.

Suffice to say, she’s definitely _not_ expecting him to show up as Han Solo to her Princess Leia.

Huffing, she storms up to him, jabbing at his chest to get his attention. “Okay, now I know for a fact that you’ve been doing this on purpose for years.”

Bellamy blinks down at her, wide eyed. “Wait, what?”

“Cut the crap.” She snaps, suddenly and inexplicably furious. “I asked Octavia, okay? She said you never watched any of the Star Wars movies, growing up. According to her, you don’t even know what a Jedi is. What about the force?” Then, narrowing her eyes at him, “Are you even aware of who you’re dressed up as?”

He arches a brow at her, delivering a pointed look at her. “Obviously, I’m Han Solo.”

“Okay, but who _is_ he, Bellamy?”

“Captain of the millennium falcon, master smuggler, the guy who totally shot first.” He recites, ticking off his fingers. “You want me to go on? Give you the entire plot to episode IV that Miller and I watched?”

“No.” She mutters, chagrined. “I’m just— God, Bellamy. It just seems like an awful lot of coincidences, okay? It’s crazy. And statistically impossible.”

He eyes her consideringly, corners of his mouth twitching. If she didn’t know any better, she would think he was blushing, _but_ —

“Fine,” he admits, gruff. “Statistically, I may have fudged with the numbers. Just a little.”

The noise that leaves her throat is equal parts outrage and disbelief. “I fucking knew it. But who—” she frowns, the answer coming to her almost instantly after. “Oh my god, that traitor.”

He shrugs, deliberately nonchalant. “Well, she is my sister.”

“I can’t believe her.” She grouses, shooting him a dark look. “You guys have been playing me for years.”

“Some of them were actual coincidences.” He hastens to add, looking a little sheepish. “I just wanted to rile you up at first, okay? But then it was pretty fun after, and it almost seemed like I was breaking tradition if I didn’t keep up.”

“Oh my god,” she declares, shaking her head. “You did all of that just to piss me off?” She pauses, considers it for a second. “Huh. I am actually feeling pretty honored.”

That earns her a eye-roll on his part, his voice taking on a strangely defensive edge. “Yes, because clearly, watching you get all splotchy and tense is the best part of my day.”

The words are mocking, sharp; but the soft, anxious look on his face belies them entirely, the tips of his ears glowing red, and in that instant, everything seems to fall into perfect clarity, everything she’s known about him before shifting into something akin to understanding.

“Clearly,” she echoes, making sure to inject a hint of playfulness in her tone. “Someone went to great lengths to get my attention.”

He sputters at that, choking on his breath. “ _What_?”

“Consider it garnered, you nerd.” She tells him, biting at her lip to keep from smiling. She can’t help but feel a little fond of him- just like this, beneath the veneer of calculated coolness and mysterious brooding- _stupidly_ sincere and yet terribly awkward, grouchy and sweet and earnest.

There’s a beat as he worries at his lip, apprehensive. Then, almost as if he’s steeling himself, “So unless I’m reading the situation entirely wrong, this is the part where I ask you out, right?”

She can’t help her smile this time, poking playfully at his side. “Yeah, Bellamy. This is when you ask me out.”

His responding smile is fucking _blinding_ , bright and warm and happy like she’s never seen before and she laughs when he finally reaches over to cup her face in his hands, breath fanning over her lips when he tells her, breezy as can be, “Cool. Just thought I’d check in.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, before reaching up to close the distance between them, pulling him into the kiss. “Don’t worry. Definitely on the same page here.”


	62. better than I know myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we’re secret friends with benefits and you accidentally wore my shirt to to the party so you’re pretending you came as me and it turns out your impression of me is on point and you know me better than you know myself are you sure you’re not in love with me??'

The whole thing had been Clarke’s idea. The party _and_ the sex, that is. **  
**

Bellamy had been a lot easier to convince for the latter because it seemed like a good idea at the time. They were both single and a little buzzed, both reeling from their respective breakups from Gina and Niylah. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, one of those you-scratch-my-back-and-I’ll-scratch-yours sort of situations. Easy and uncomplicated and _fun._

And it would have been, really, if it wasn’t for the small, niggling fact that he’s been half in love with her for years now.

He should probably— he knows he has to tell her already, but the thought of jeopardizing everything they have leaves him cold. It’s stupid and irrational and immature, but it’s _Clarke_ , and he just knows that losing her would be unbearable. It’s easier, at this point, to actively _not_ think about it. Which works out for him, at times.

Then their annual Halloween celebration rolls around and everything, quite literally, goes to shit.

Mostly because Clarke appears to have forgotten that they’re celebrating it her apartment this year considering she gets the door in nothing but her underwear and _his_ shirt.

He gapes, eyes roving from her sleep-mussed hair to the grit crusted by the corner of her eye. She stares back, brows raised, a small smile playing along the edge of her lips.

“Uh,” Raven goes, squinting. “Did you forget about our party? And your costume?”

She opens her mouth to respond, is interrupted by a frowning Octavia. “Yeah,” she chimes in, sounding vaguely nonplussed. “Also, why are you in my brother’s shirt?”

“Not my shirt.” He bites out, automatic, shifting to wipe at his sweaty palms against his jeans.

That earns him a pointed look on her part, one he recognizes as her _shut up and let me handle this_ expression.

“I am in costume,” she shrugs, nonchalant, leaning her weight against her door frame. “I’m Bellamy. Get it?”

He manages to disguise the strangled noise that leaves his throat as a cough, regaining his composure when she kicks at his ankle subtly. “Jesus, Clarke. Lazy much?”

“Not my fault you’re a slob and left your shirt here the last time your machine broke.”

“Says the person who broke my dishwasher.” He retorts, has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. The others- already disinterested in their squabble- have drifted into the apartment, bags of food and decoration in tow. Lowering his voice a fraction, he can’t help but reach forward to graze at the hem of his shirt, skimming the bare skin of her thighs. “Seriously?”

She flushes, casting a surreptitious glance over at the others before drawing closer. “Well, I wouldn’t have forgotten about the party if _someone_ hadn’t worn me out this afternoon.”

He can’t help his grin this time, wide and a little goading. “You’re the one who called me over.”

“Shut up,” she grumbles, poking at his ribs. “God. I can’t believe I have to pretend to be you all day.”

He gives a solemn shake of his head, makes sure to inject some mocking in his tone when he tells her, “Tragic.”

Clarke eyes him consideringly. “I mean, it’s not like it’s going to be hard for me or anything.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“You’ll see.” She says, smug, before flouncing off to put on a pair of boxers (also his).

For what it’s worth, he has to grudgingly admit that she definitely has most of his behavior down pat- yelling at Jasper about not using coasters, grouching at the choice of horror movies, herding everyone into their respective spots around the TV- and it’s funny, really, but  it also has a strange way of making him ache too because she _knows_ him. She knows him better than anyone else, sees him for who he is. His whole life, people had always asked of him to be someone, or something- a parental figure, a leader, a older brother- but with Clarke, he could just _be._

He’s fetching a beer from the fridge during a lull in the movie when she intercepts him, resting her chin against his shoulder.

Stilling, he angles his chin to look at her, foreheads brushing. “What’s up?”

Clarke regards him carefully, eyes soft when she reaches over to butt her nose against his. “I don’t know. You seemed sad all of a sudden, so I thought I’d check up on you.”

“I’m fine.” He mumbles, avoiding her gaze resolutely. At the irritated noise she makes, he sighs, relents. “It’s nothing. I just— I don’t know. I just realized that you know me really, really well. Possibly more than Octavia.”

She wrinkles her nose at that. “Definitely more than Octavia,” she agrees, winding her arms around his neck. Then, a little shyly, “As do you.”

“Good,” he manages, through the lump in his throat, an admittance, “I like what we are to each other.”

It’s her turn to still at that, quiet, long enough for him to actually start worrying until—

“But we could be more,” she murmurs, her inhale sharp in the quiet. “I want us to be more. If we’re on the same page, that is.”

He laughs, the sound shaky to his own ears, relief and hope and happiness all at once. “If your page involves wanting to be together and, like, doing a whole host of nauseatingly domestic activities all the time, then yes. Most definitely.”

“You’re going to have to get into the specifics of these supposed domestic activities.” She tells him, wry, and he thinks his heart might actually burst out of his chest at the sheer joy of it all; of her wanting him back, of finally being together.

“Something like this,” he breathes, grinning, before lacing their fingers together and pressing a kiss against her lips, firm and chaste, a promise of everything else to come.


	63. james potter and rapunzel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'strangers who hooked up at a party while in costume but tbh i might be in love with you so i’m gonna walk this earth looking for the right woodland nymph because i just imagined clarke desperately looking for the right james potter, for once not-so-happy that hp is so popular.'

There are several moments in Clarke’s life where she _knows_ she has made a terrible mistake, a list that includes but is not limited to: **  
**

  * Becoming a redhead.
  * Switching majors from art history to pre-med.
  * Buying her graduation dress two sizes too small because it’s meant to be form fitting anyway.



And, lastly (and also most recently):

  * Not getting James Potter’s number or name after their laundry room hookup.



“This is by far,” she declares, raising her voice to be heard over the din, “the stupidest thing I’ve ever done in the history of all my terrible decision making.”

Raven wrinkles her nose at her, apprehensive. “I thought you said your laundry room hookup was good. Amazing, even.”

“It _was_.” She points out, frustrated, flopping down onto the sofa next to her and grimacing at the stickiness of the leather against her thighs. “I’m just mad at myself because I let him go without even getting his _name_. I mean, who does that?”

The expression on Raven’s face can only be described as long-suffering. “You, clearly.” She mutters, pulling her up by her elbow and into a quieter corner of the room. “Alright, let’s just get straight to it. Do you remember seeing him leave?”

She considers this, flushing at the memory of his crooked smile, the tangle of hair falling into his eyes and dusting the rim of his glasses. “I don’t _think_ so. Last time I saw him, he was heading to the drinks table.”

There’s a beat as Raven studies her, curiosity quickly replaced by determination. “Well, that settles it.” She shrugs, fingers clamping down on her shoulders and steering her towards the kitchen, “We’re going to have to find your mystery sorcerer guy, if it’s the last thing you do at this party.”

“Wizard.” She corrects, letting herself be pushed along. “I’m not sure you’re getting how amazing this James Potter thing was.”

She waves her off, eyes already scouring the crowd with all the focus of a general marching into battle. “How did he look like again?”

“Uh, Gryffindor robes.” She says, rolling up onto her balls of her feet and craning her neck, “That’s a red and gold tie and glasses and a wand. Plus, really nice hair. Soft. This whole bunch of freckles—”

Raven mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, _you’re being fucking impossible._

“You’re the one who called James Potter a sorcerer,” she accuses, huffing. “I’m trying to provide you with descriptors, okay?”

“No, you’re telling me about how he has soft, pullable hair and really nice freckles that you’re going to attempt to draw three weeks from now.” She retorts, swivelling on her heel so she could grab at the nearest passerby, “Hey, have you seen this guy dressed like Harry Potter? Or, like, his dead father?”

The girl in question (dressed as Furiosa, which is a nice touch) startles, blinking owlishly over at them. “Uh, I don’t think so?”

“Okay,” Clarke manages, pasting on a hasty smile. “Thanks anyway.”

They go at it for the next twenty minutes before _finally_ getting something concrete.

“James Potter?” The guy repeats, brow furrowing. “I mean, yeah, I’ve seen a lot of Harry Potter cosplays today. But he’s was the only good one I saw, so I figure we’re talking about the same person here. Messy hair and freckles?”

“Yeah,” She perks up, her breath catching in her throat. “That’s the one.”

He shakes his head ruefully. “Hate to break it to you, but I’m pretty sure I just saw him leave with his friends.”

 _Oh_. She licks her lips, swallows to get some moisture back in her throat. Her disappointment feels heavy somehow, weighs down against her shoulders. “It’s okay,” she tries, shoulders jerking in the best approximation of a shrug she can muster under the circumstances. “Guess it’s just not meant to be.”

His gaze is sympathetic. “Maybe you could try asking around some more?”

“Nah,” she says, exhaling the tension from her body, feeling her disappointment give way to relief at the thought of being able to head home, at the thought of a warm shower and clean sheets. “Thanks for helping out, though.”

Raven is noticeably disappointed when she informs her of the news but doesn’t argue when she suggests heading back instead. There’s a certain comfort in peeling off her costume (Rapunzel, at Wells’s suggestion) at the end of the day anyway, and she forces herself not to dwell on him _or_ the party for the rest of the night.

Until the very next morning, when she realizes that she left her wallet at the apartment.

Swearing under her breath, she casts her now useless purse aside, tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. She still had the address and the name of Raven’s friend from last night and there wasn’t any point in interrupting her beauty sleep just for the sake of a wallet anyway. Weaving her laces through her boots haphazardly, she grabs the keys from the bowl in the living room before heading out; the streets growing increasingly familiar as she makes her way back to the apartment.

Apartment 26C looks shabbier in the daylight, somehow, smaller too. Curling her fingers into a fist, she raps at the door carefully, taking a pointed step back just as the door swings open—

She blinks, has to rub at her eyes to make sure she’s not hallucinating. “Wait. Holy crap, James Potter?”

He stares back, brows raising to his hairline, his mouth turning upwards into a smile as recognition dawns. “Princess?”

That snaps her out of her reverie, at least, reeling back slightly so she could plant her hands on her hips. “I was _Rapunzel_.”

He laughs, and it’s a nice sound, low and warm and gravelly. “You had a crown of flowers in your hair, and you were in this poofy dress. What was I supposed to think?”

She rolls her eyes, bites back at the grin threatening to show on her face. “You could have asked.”

“I didn’t even get your _name_.” He points out, scratching at the back of his neck, clearly embarrassed. “I looked for you everywhere, but I couldn’t find you. I went back to my apartment after, but my sister needed help cleaning up this morning, so. Here I am.”

“Your sister,” she echoes, sifting through her memories of last night, the vague recollections of a sharp-faced girl with dark hair and his jaw, Raven’s friend. “Huh. Well, I came over to get my wallet back from her, but it turns out there’s you instead.”

“Unfortunately.” He goes, pressing his palm against his chest, mocking.

There’s a small, awkward pause, both of them just _looking_ at each other, mouths twitching at the strain of holding back before she finally summons the courage to speak.

“So,” she tells him, drawing closer. “No pressure here, but you should probably ask for my name now.”

“And your number.” He agrees, stretching his hand out for her to shake, smile wide and blinding and everything she remembered from the stolen moments of last night, “Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

She takes his hand, and it feels momentous, somehow, crossing the threshold into something bigger than her own skin. Grasping his hand tightly, she squeezes, once.

“Clarke,” she tells him, returning his smile with equal fervor. “Clarke Griffin.”


	64. just a carton (III)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'i’m sorry my younger sibling egged your house… and that i helped' au
> 
> or, part three to the just a carton series!

The snap of the branch is deafening in the quiet of the night. **  
**

He stills immediately, turning over to look at her. She stares back, mouth dropping open in a mute horror, shoulders jerking in a helpless shrug.

“Careful,” Bellamy hisses, darting forward to kick aside the remnants of the branch, offering her a outstretched hand as they push their way out of the underbrush, “we’re not _supposed_ to tip her off.”

“It was an accident.” Octavia mutters, petulant, as they emerge onto the lawn. It’s not so much a house than it is a mansion; fenced-in with a wrought-iron gate and low, gleaming walls, a single _Griffin_ etched in the space by the doorbell. “You have the eggs?”

He pats at the bag slung over his shoulder, the crunch of the box making him wince. “Yeah. You think we can jump the fence?”

Her responding snort is exasperated, the kind that feels like it should be followed up with a annoyed, _who do you take me for?_ on her part before she’s scaling the fence, landing primly on her feet.

“Sorry I asked.” He deadpans, tightening his grip on his bag before following suit.

The house is unnervingly still as they creep their way towards the porch, stopping a safe distance away. Glancing up at the open window, he unzips his bag carefully, sliding the carton of eggs out into Octavia’s waiting hands.

She giggles, popping it open. “Clarke is going to be so _mad_ at you when she finds out.”

“Worth it.” He says, grim, rolling an egg between his fingers. “Now come on, you get the first shot.”

“If you say so.” She shrugs, brows scrunched together in concentration before letting her first egg fly, landing solidly on the roof, splattering the beige tiles yellow.

“Good job.” He tells her, approving, before throwing his; feeling a rush of satisfaction when it smacks loudly against the front door. That, however, earns him a low curse on Octavia’s part, a light punch on his arm.

“What?”

“You said she’s a light sleeper!” She whispers, furious, seizing the carton from him. “Don’t _throw_ so hard, you’ll wake her up.”

He scowls, snatches the carton right back. “I can’t control _impact,_ O. That has to do with gravity. A physics concept which you should have studied about in class, mind you.”

She opens her mouth to argue, hands on hips and drawing breath, all the telltale signs of a imminent, drawn-out fight—

And that’s when the light in the upstairs window flickers on, casting them awash in a halo of of fluorescent.

Cursing under his breath, he drops the carton behind the tree, pushing at her shoulders in the direction of the fence. “Go!”

She makes a squeak of surprise. “What about you?”

“I’ll buy you some time, head in the opposite direction.” He can faintly make out the sound of someone pounding down the stairs, lights going on at every step and illuminating the lawn. “Get back to the house, okay?”

“But—”

“Now, O.”

She makes a affirmative noise in response, scrambling out of sight as he skids across the grass and past the porch, grabbing at the railing for support just as the door slams open, nearly causing him to fall flat on his face before righting himself just in time.

There’s an angry shout and he’s running, narrowly avoiding falling into the pool as he scales the fence by the backyard, falling gracelessly onto the other side and stumbling a few steps. They’re not that far away from the house and there’s no doubt that he probably evaded whoever was back at the house anyway but he breaks into a run all the same, crashing through the familiar path back home.

He takes a deep, shuddering breath when he draws up at the door, fumbling through his pocket for his keys—

“ _Bellamy_.”

Stiffening, he drops his keys back in his pocket, spins on his heel carefully to face her. “Clarke.”

She glares over at him, arms crossed over her chest and still clearly out of breath, cheeks flushed and foot tapping impatiently against the ground. He bites back a laugh at a string of yolk dangling from her hair, possibly from the egg Octavia had thrown on the roof.

“I can’t _believe_ you,” she growls, stomping forward to meet him halfway. “Is this is your idea of a joke?”

“Kind of.” He says weakly, reaching down to pick the fragments of eggshell out of the bun atop her head. “It’s, uh. More of a gift, actually. Like a nostalgia thing.”

Her eyes widen in surprise, then, understanding. Groaning, she swats at his chest, huffing impatiently when he swoops in and grabs at her hips instead, pulling her closer so he could nuzzle at her neck, the ticklish spot by her collarbone.

“Ugh,” she complains, squealing when he drops butterfly kisses against her nose, her closed eyelids. “You’re such a nerd, Bellamy Blake.”

He laughs, tangling his fingers in her hair so he could hold her in place, kiss at her mouth sweetly. “Happy anniversary, princess.”


	65. gravy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'hi we’re neighbours and omg are you alright i could smell cooking burning - whoaaa now that’s just embarrassing? step aside i’ll handle this'

Look, Clarke has done some pretty impressive things in her life, okay? She’s written fifteen page long dissertations with deadlines that are only a few hours away. She knows how to make a perfect poached egg in a coffee pot. She can decipher Raven’s infamous scrawl with nothing but a highlighter and a search engine. **  
**

Still, this goes a _little_ beyond her usual capabilities.

Giving a muttered swear, she swats at the steaming bowl with her dishrag, grimacing as the acrid smell of burnt food hits her nose. According to the back of the box, the gravy should be at the ideal consistency and temperature for her to pour it over her mashed potatoes, _but_.

She raises the bowl tentatively, tipping it slightly. It refuses to budge, and now bears a consistency that reminds her vaguely of concrete.

Groaning, Clarke drops her head against the counter, mumbling a low _fuck_ against her elbow.

Logically, making a Christmas dinner for one shouldn’t be _that_ hard.

She’s poking at the mixture with a fork (scraping it out of the bowl seems like the best option) when a voice interrupts her, low and amused. “You have the temperature on too high.”

Stifling a small, startled noise, she whirls around instead, finds herself looking at someone rifling through the communal fridge. “What?”

A grunt as the fridge door swings shut, the stranger emerging with a tub of carefully labelled blueberry yogurt. Dark hair and dark eyes and an arched brow, his gaze roving from the ingredients scattered over the counter to the recipe she has propped up against the toaster.

Then, with a certain amount of aplomb, he goes, “The microwave, Princess. Wouldn’t want you fucking up school property now.”

“I’m not—” she makes a indignant noise, crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t do anything. I just popped my mix in the microwave and it burnt the entire thing.”

“Because you have the temperature set too high.” He says flatly, jerking his chin over at the myriad of dials by the timer. “You could put a brick in there and it’ll fry it.”

Casting a cursory glance over at it, she pushes the dial back a hint, raising a brow in question.

He winces, peeling off the lid of his tub. “A little more.”

She frowns. “I don’t want it to take forever to heat up either.”

“It’s not going to take forever to heat up,” he huffs, drawing closer so he could twist the dial back further, “because it’s a _microwave._ It’s meant to be quick, see?”

She can’t help but bristle at his tone, a hint of derision slipping into her voice as she declares, “Well, thanks. Couldn’t have figured that out myself, considering I was using it just five minutes ago.”

“To burn your gravy?” He asks, with a certain amount of mocking; the edges of his mouth curling into a smirk. “I can see that.”

“It was—” she flushes hotly, scrambling for the words, “a _one-time_ mistake, okay? Besides, don’t you have someplace else to be?” She says, turning away from him so she could attack at the bowl with new fervor, “Somewhere else to eat your yogurt and make judgmental, snide remarks?”

He makes a face of barely disguised horror at that, loosening his grip on his spoon. “Are you still trying to _salvage_ that?”

“Can’t eat my mashed potatoes without gravy.” She says stubbornly, blowing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “And it’s not goddamn Christmas _without_ mashed potatoes, capiche?”

She’s not sure if she imagines it, but the look in his eyes seems to soften imperceptibly at that. Then, with an audible sigh, “Just stop, okay? I’ll help you.”

“It’s fine.” She insists, digging her fork deeper into the mixture. “Just— go be where you have to be.”

His smile is wry as he takes the bowl away from her, setting it in the sink instead. “Everyone else has cleared out of the dorm for Christmas, Princess. Where else do I have to be?”

She blinks, watching him retrieve a sauce pan from under the cabinets, flicking at the dials of the stove with deft, even movements. “It’s Clarke, actually.”

He nods, popping open the fridge and emerging with a block of butter before handing her a small, sharp knife. “Bellamy. You can slice things up, at least. Right?”

Glaring, she takes the knife from him, resting it against the chopping board. “How much do you need?”

Strangely, it doesn’t go as badly as she thought it would. Bellamy doesn’t seem to be much of a conversationalist- not at first, at least- but she manages to draw a few answers out of him. It turns out he’s a senior, just like her, and majoring in History. He thinks store-bought cranberry sauce is an abomination, and feels the same way about PVC trees. There’s a wistfulness in his face when he talks about his sister, a kind of gruffness to his voice that suggests that he misses her much more than he lets on. They commiserate over cancelled flights and snow storms and how the coffee stand over by the engineering building serves coffee that tastes like tar; and it’s _nice_ , somehow. Easy in a way that she hasn’t been with anyone else, in a while.

“Okay,” he says, tapping a spoon at the edge of the pan and lifting it to her lips. “Taste test.”

She hums, breathing in the salty, buttery smell, her mouth watering. “God, I don’t even need to taste it to know it’s going to be good.”

He rolls his eyes, fond. “Just try it already.”

Leaning forward, she takes a sip, has to keep herself from making a wholly inappropriate noise. “Jesus. Yup, that’s the good stuff.”

“Good.” He echoes, satisfied. “Trick lies in the amount of butter you add.”

“Duly noted.” She tells him, mock-sombre. Then, at his grin, she adds, “But, really. Thank you.”

“No problem.” He says, gaze dropping back to his yogurt cup, his hand going to scratch at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Uh. Guess my work here is done, so. I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Wait!” She blurts out, her fingers locking around his wrist instinctively. His skin is warm against hers, edged with calluses, fills with her a kind of electricity that is a little hard to comprehend, making her breath catch. Maybe it’s because of the way he’s looking at her, confused and lonely and a little hopeful, or maybe it’s because the last few hours have been the most fun she’s had in _days_ , but.  

“Stay.” She manages, releasing his wrist carefully. “I bought way too much mashed potatoes anyway.”

A beat passes, his gaze steady on hers. Then, he smiles, devastating in its warmth, and she feels it flood all the way down to her toes in a heady, exciting rush.

“Well, if you insist.” He remarks, before reaching over to grab two spoons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to send me some christmas-themed prompts over at my inbox!


	66. secret santa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'i got you for secret santa so i got you this really expensive but sentimental gift that you’ve always wanted, hoping you’ll never find out it’s from me - and that i’ve been in love with you 1234567 years?'
> 
> A part of my missing-scenes-from-season-one collection!

It happens mostly because Clarke _doesn’t_ want to get gifts for eighty four people. **  
**

“For the last time,” Bellamy tells her, exasperated and amused, all at once. “It doesn’t work like that. You’re not obligated to get everyone gifts, okay? You save their lives enough as it is.”

She huffs at that, fingers still deftly working at the roll of bandages. “So, what? You think it’s better that I leave people out instead?” Glaring down at her handiwork, she purses her lips, pulling it apart once more. “You know, it’s _easy_ for you to say. Most of them are terrified of you anyway, so it’s not like they’re expecting to get gifts from you.”

He arches a brow at her, snorting. “I think you’re conveniently leaving out the fact that the kids developed a richter scale for your bad moods. Magnitude three,” he says, ticking off his fingers, “is giving snappy, one-worded responses to everything. Magnitude seven, on the other hand—”

“You know what we should do?” Clarke continues, as if she never heard him in the first place. “Organize a secret santa. That way, we don’t have to get gifts for multiple people.”

“Perfect.” He drawls, sardonic. “Just what we need, right? More trouble than it’s worth?” Then, rubbing at his face wearily, he adds, “Whatever. Just leave me out of it, Princess.”

(He ends up writing out eighty six different name slips and mixing them in a bowl to be picked; Clarke looking on with a kind of smug satisfaction that makes him scowl.)

It is a little ironic, really, that he ends up drawing her name.

The stubborn, resistant part of him sits on the whole idea for the next few weeks, refusing to even _entertain_ the idea of getting her anything. It’s not like he cares what she thinks about him anyway, and it serves her right for dragging him into this entire mess.

Still, the thought of it niggles at him over the course of the next few weeks; absent and fleeting but _there_ , all the same. In the end, he finds himself wrapping up her gift with a sheet of brown paper, tying a neat knot over the package before sneakily adding it to the makeshift tree after everyone else has gone to sleep.

(Honestly, it’s bad enough that he followed through and got a gift for the Princess. He’s not going to broadcast it or anything.)

All things considered, he definitely did _not_ expect her reaction upon opening his present.

Her eyes are wide as she traces the line of her father’s watch; the cracked face replaced with a new sheet of glass, the band polished to a gleaming silver. He had spirited it from her tent for a few hours, enlisting Raven’s help for repairs after sourcing for the required materials himself. Thankfully, she hadn’t noticed that it was missing from her tent this morning.

It seemed fitting, at the time; a small gesture, but practical all the same. The kind of thing she would smile over, at least.

He didn’t factor _tears_ into the agenda.

Raven- his sole accomplice- shoots him a wide-eyed, startled look. He can only stare back, dumbfounded, as Clarke wipes at her eyes, giving a breathless little laugh.

“Sorry,” she sniffs, as Jasper envelopes her in a huge hug, Miller patting at her shoulder awkwardly. “I’m just— I’m really touched, you guys. Thank you. I love it.”

That gets a frown out of Jasper, drawing back slightly so he could look down at her. “Whoa, hey. I didn’t get that for you, Clarke.”

“Don’t look at me.” Miller grunts, when she turns her inquisitive stare over at him. “I got Harper socks.”

“A sock.” Harper corrects, sounding mildly disgruntled.

They continue unwrapping the rest of the presents once it’s clear that no one is stepping forward to claim credit for Clarke’s present. He can feel Raven’s pointed gaze on him throughout the rest of the session, but he refuses to cave, resolutely looking into the distance instead.

It’s a relief, to say the least, when all the gifts are given out; and he makes a hasty retreat under the guise of guard duty. Being alone sounds ideal right about now- despite the freezing cold- and also gives him the time to sharpen the knife Monroe got him anyway.

Anything to keep his thoughts from straying to—

She plops down on the outcropping of rock next to him, chin propped against her palm.

“What?” He barks, before she can say anything. The look in her eyes makes him squirm, somewhat; knowing and determined and fond, all at once. “Can’t you see I’m a little busy here?”

“ _Bellamy._ ” She says, her voice even and measured. “I know it’s you, okay? Only you could be capable of something like this.”

He blinks over at her, feigning nonchalance. “What, now?”

“Bellamy.” Clarke groans, rubbing at her temples irritably. Then, swallowing, she continues, “Only you would do something so thoughtful and refuse to admit it after.”

He turns his face away from her, cheeks hot. He’s not sure why the implication that he _cares_ for her embarrasses him so much, why it’s so hard to admit that she matters to him. Maybe it’s because he knows that she’ll never feel the same way, or maybe it’s because he didn’t realize the extent of it until now.

Somehow, along the way, Clarke Griffin found her way into the list of people he would move fucking mountains for, and he’s not even sure how it happened in the first place.

Her lips against his cheek startles him out of his reverie; the kiss brief and warm and sweet, above all. His hand drifts up to graze at the skin, unconsciously, twisting over to look at her.

“Thanks, Bell.” She whispers before scuttling away, the skin of her neck mottled pink and her ears red.

He can’t help it, he grins; thumb rubbing absently at the spot where her lips had touched his skin. Suddenly, it didn’t seem as cold as before.


	67. mistletoe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'person a seducing person b into taking a few steps back/backing them against the wall (”oh look, how did that mistletoe get right there????'

Here is what you have to understand: Clarke did _not_ set out to seduce Bellamy Blake. **  
**

If anything, honestly, _he_ started it.

It happens after one too many drinks, the roof of her tongue burning from the acrid taste of tequila and Bellamy’s arm wound in his as they stumble out of the door, cursing the cold and the layer of ice frosted over the sidewalks.

The night is a bust considering they’re going home to Netflix and cold Chinese food; and he’s grousing about the conspicuous lack of kisses he got under the mistletoe this year when the words burst out of her, unwarranted.

“Look, _I’ll_ kiss you if you’re going to make such a big deal out of it.”

That gets him to stop in his tracks, brows rising up to his hairline. “Are you— Wait, _you’re_ volunteering?”

She rolls her eyes at that, has to work to keep her voice nonchalant. “If it gets you to shut up? Then, yeah. Definitely.”

He smirks at that, patting at her shoulder consolingly. “I knew my charm would get to you someday, Griffin. It’s okay. You can admit it, you know.”

Her skin heats at that, despite her best attempt to tamp down the small rush of excitement that bubbles up at the thought of kissing him. It’s not as if kissing her best friend is some sort of secret fantasy she harbours or anything, but Clarke will _willingly_ admit that she has thought about it. More than once, in fact.

It doesn’t work, if the delighted laugh Bellamy gives is any indication. “Holy shit,” he says, whirling onto her. “You’re actually— you’re— you _want_ to kiss me, don’t you?”

“No!” She yelps, mostly out of instinct. “As if, Bellamy Blake.” She blusters, folding her arms across her chest. Then, primly, “I would sooner make out with a sasquatch than you.”

Her heart sinks at the gleam in his eye, the jerk of his chin. She recognizes a challenge when she sees one, and considering who it’s coming from, she knows she’s in it for a long haul.

“Whatever you say.” He says lowly, reaching forward to brush his fingers through her hair, lingering, as she shivers, her eyes fluttering shut automatically. Then, with a distinct note of triumph in his voice, he adds, “You should shake the snow out of your hair, Princess.”

That, as far as she knows, is the beginning of the end.

It starts small, at first: the brush of his fingers against the small of her back, the curl of his hand over her hip so he could get by. Sometimes it’s an arm over her shoulder, playing with the ends of her hair idly or just seating himself close enough that she can feel his warm breath against the side of her neck.

It’s _torture_ , to say the least, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to remain as unaffected as possible.

“Reconsidering?” He would ask each time, his voice goading and peering over at her from between his lashes.

“Unlikely.” She manages with a Herculean amount of effort on her part, wired and trembling and entirely unconvincing.

(Still, she’d admit that there’s _some_ sort of satisfaction to be gleaned from the situation. It’s impossible to miss the way his eyes darken at their proximity sometimes, the muscle in his jaw fluttering every time she smiles over at him, coy, hands flitting from his knee to his bicep to the dip of his collarbone. Everything about their situation is frustrating, to say the least, but at least they’re in it together, right?)

It all comes to a head on Christmas Eve.

She’s making popcorn in the kitchen when she hears the familiar jingle of keys, the sound of the door easing shut. Wiping the remnants of butter onto her jeans, she calls out, “Sweet or salted?”

There’s a beat, and she can vaguely make out the sound of him rooting for something in the living room, his response accompanied by the crinkle of plastic. “Salted!”

“Too bad,” she manages, shaking out kernels in the bowl. “I already opened the bag of sweet popcorn, so that’s what you’re getting.”

He draws up beside her then, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. “Why bother asking then?” Bellamy goes, fond, and she smacks his hand away before he can sneak a piece.

“Just hand me the cinnamon.” She says briskly, his arm brushing against her shoulder blades as he reaches past her—

Only for him to crowd her against the counter, his breath warm against the back of her neck.

She squeaks, the sound escaping her, spinning on her heel so she could face him; their noses bumping as she regards him with bated breath. “What are you doing?”

He swallows, throat bobbing as his gaze flits up to the space above their heads. “Mistletoe.”

She follows suit, her eyes catching on the sprig of green swaying slightly in the breeze before dropping it back to his lips; her tongue darting out to wet hers unconsciously. “How did you even get that up there without me noticing?”

“You were preoccupied.” He smirks, hands reaching up to cup her face; slow enough that she could have ducked away, if she wanted to. “Second thoughts?”

Her body trembles with the effort of holding still, or maybe it’s the look in his eyes; earnest and soft and yearning. It’s what breaks her, in the end, seeing the _longing_ in his eyes reflected in her own.

“Yeah,” she admits, her eyes sweeping shut, pitching towards him instinctively. “Consider it a change of heart.”

He doesn’t kiss her then, though, not right away- and when she opens her eyes, he’s staring at her with apprehension in his eyes, thumb still stroking at her cheekbone carefully.

She blinks. “What?”

His voice is rough when he finally speaks, his forehead pressed up against hers. “I’m, uh.” He releases a ragged breath at that, shuddering. “I’m not sure if I can stop at one, truthfully.”

The relief that rushes through her is staggering, almost, and she can’t help the grin that works its way across her face, bright and relieved and fucking _ecstatic._ “You don’t have to.” She says, conversational, wrinkling her forehead as she pretends to consider it, “You know there’s this thing, right? A term that people use for long-term makeout buddies? It’s, uh, right on the tip of my tongue—”

He kisses her then, her laugh lost against his lips as he mutters a litany of finally into her skin.

(After, when they’re both loose and sated and she has her head curled up against his chest, he asks, grinning, “So, I _definitely_ won this round, right?”

“Just this time.” She grumbles, before reaching over to seal her lips over his once more.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys THAT NUZZLE IN THE S4 TRAILER COME YELL WITH ME


	68. bed-sharing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'we’re strictly ‘platonic’ but we’re snowed in omg we’re gonna have to repopulate the earth' + 'one/both of us is freezing cold and wet guess we'll have to strip and cuddle for body heat i dont make the rules' for bellarke pls
> 
> Slightly tweaked because I'm Unfortunately Useless at writing smut, so have some Platonic Bed-Sharing and Cuteness instead.

The whole reason they’re in this _mess_ in the first place is because of Bellamy. **  
**

She tells him as much, grumbling, lifting the wet strands of hair off her neck. “You know, none of this would be happening right now if we had just taken Roan’s map.”

“If we’d taken Roan’s map, we wouldn’t know about this bunker.” He points out through chattering teeth, peeling off his damp jacket. His shirt is soaked through, clinging to his skin, and she looks away before she can do something stupid, like _stare_. “Besides,” he continues, clearly oblivious, “it’s not like we’re late, or anything. There’s two whole days to the coronation.”

“This snowstorm might last for _days_ , Bellamy.”

That gets a barely concealed grin from him, a shrug. “Well, that’s a shame. And to think I was looking forward to seeing the Ice Nation, too.”

“It’s just the two of us here,” she says, dry, “you know you don’t have to pretend you like him or anything, right?”

“I like him a fair amount for someone who put a sword through my leg.” He comments, mild; his expression growing concerned as he looks her over. “Shit, Clarke. You’re shaking.”

She manages a gurgle of a laughter at that, fingers shaking as she works at the zipper of her jacket. “Really? Didn’t notice.”

“I’ll look for more blankets and get a fire started.” He says hastily, kicking at the animal pelt (more of a rug, really) sprawled out by the small fireplace. “You just focus on getting warm.”

“I will once you get your dirty boots off my new blanket.”

He doesn’t dignify the statement with a response, his boots clattering against the ground as he darts into the depths of the bunker. Carefully, Clarke peels her shirt up and over her head, shrugging her pants and undergarments off before wrapping herself in the pelt. It still smells faintly of dead animal and cat pee, but it’s not like she can afford to be picky anyway.

Bellamy comes back after a few minutes, toting several blankets and a bottle of water.

“To share.” He tells her, rucking his wet hair through his fingers before setting the bottle down beside her. “How are you holding up?”

“I could be warmer.” She murmurs, the heat of the fire lulling her closer and closer to sleep. “Strip, then get in here.”

He sputters at that, arms hunched over his knees. “ _What?_ ”

“You heard me.” She snaps, trying (valiantly) to keep her thoughts from straying into dangerous territory. Anything but the memory of the last time she’d seen him in summer, bare from the waist up, the solid planes of his chest glistening with sweat and dirt. “It’s to conserve body heat, okay? I don’t know about you, but I actually like having ten toes.”

“I know.” He sighs, working at the laces of his shoes. “I just— I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, or anything.”

“I’ll be perfectly comfortable if I get to keep all my toes.”

That gets a snort out of him, and she closes her eyes when he begins to pull at the back of his shirt; the motion reflexive. It’s no use anyway- her cheeks feel hot to her own touch as he wriggles in behind her, draping the rest of the blankets over them haphazardly.

A long, awkward beat pauses; tension radiating off him in waves and her eyes still firmly screwed shut.

“Relax,” Clarke says finally, breaking the silence. Then, grappling at his arm, she lays it over her waist, pulling him closer. His warmth envelopes her instantly at that, and she can’t help the small sigh of relief that escapes her lips. “God. That’s so much better.”

His chest rumbles against her back as he makes a noise of assent. It makes her feel protected, somehow, cocooned in his form. But then again, Bellamy always had a knack for making her feel safe. “Just tell me if you need me to move, or anything.”

She snorts, relaxing further into his embrace. “Only if the snowstorm kills everyone else out there and we’re humanity’s last hope at repopulating this planet.”

“With our luck?” He says, wry, his hair tickling at her cheek. “Probably. Though I can’t say that it’s worse than taking down a homicidal A.I.”

“Or taking down an entire mountain.”

“You’re forgetting about the acid fog and the two-headed deers.”

Smiling into her arm, she adds, “There’s all the stupid Grounder politics, too.”

“Ugh.” He says into her hair, his smile evident in his voice. “Glad we have one less thing to worry about. This repopulating the planet business sounds exhausting already.”

“Glad you think having sex with me is such a hardship, Bellamy Blake.” She teases, nudging at his ribs. “It has to do with the fact that you’re secretly ninety years old, right?”

The indignant noise that he makes would be comical, if he didn’t sound a little genuinely distressed too. “I didn’t mean it like _that_.”

She shakes at her head ruefully, all ready to brush him off—

“If it makes you feel better,” he says, soft; his swallow audible in the relative quiet of the room. “I think you’re the only person I would ever want to repopulate the earth with anyway.”

Her breath catches in her throat at that, suddenly and _stupidly_ overwhelmed, because, _well._

It’s the same for her. It has nothing to do with not being able to picture herself being with somebody else, really, but more of not wanting to be with anyone else but him. Clarke could have all the infinite possibilities of the world, and she would only and always want him.

There’s a part of her that’s tempted to tell him all of this; to turn over and cradle his face in her arms, kiss him until he’s breathless, and _yet_.

“The feeling’s mutual, Bell.” She murmurs instead, lifting his hand to kiss at his fingers before snuggling closer, breathing him in. Besides, there’s no rush. He’s not going anywhere, and they have all the time in the world. “G’night.”

“Goodnight.” He whispers, his lips warm against her temple; so light, it could have been a dream.


	69. ring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I did that annoying thing where i put loads of smaller boxes inside one big box and you’re getting really mad but you don’t know that the ring is in the smallest box and i can’t wait to see your face'

In all the years that they’ve been dating, he has always known Clarke to be a pretty patient person. She deals with her mother on a regular basis, for one, (something Bellamy severely lacks the gene for) and holds a job that requires a regular amount of interaction with humans. **  
**

(Suffice to say, that’s _two_ whole tiers above him with regards to patience, considering that he gets mad whenever the contestants on Jeopardy takes longer than a minute to answer a question. But, _still_. Not the point.)

It’s what makes this situation so hilarious, really: watching Clarke’s nostrils flare with each box, her mouth twisting into a petulant frown at every false alarm.

“Oh, come on.” She huffs, when the unveiling of the fourth consecutive box reveals yet another box. “You know it’s okay if you didn’t get me anything, right? You don’t have to keep up this _charade._ ”

“Do you really think that I would have gone through all that effort with these boxes if I didn’t get you anything?” He points out, mild.

Sighing, she reaches over, firmly pressing her palm against his bouncing knee. Then, a little apprehensively, “I don’t know. You’re acting kind of shifty.”

He swallows, has to work to keep his voice nonchalant despite the overwhelming amount of anxiety and love and fucking _anticipation_ gathering in his chest. “It’s nothing, okay? I just really, really hope you like your present.”

The look in her eyes softens at that, indescribably fond, her voice going teasing, “Oh, come on. If it’s really bad, I’ll just do what _you_ do to the presents my mom sends over every year.”

“Yeah, and on the plus side,” he says dryly, nuzzling at her shoulder, “I think I’m really starting to grow on the people over at Macy’s. They have a running bet on which day I’ll show up.”

“You know they call you the ghost of Christmas regrets, right?”

“They never seem to believe the overbearing mother-in-law story.” He observes; can’t help grinning just a little when she makes a small noise of frustration at the revelation of another box. “I promise,” he says, his voice catching slightly, “that you’re almost there.”

The look she gives him is chastising, almost. “Please tell me you didn’t get something completely over-the-top and crazy.”

His stomach flips at that, and he has to grab at his knees to halt the relentless motion of it. “Would that be so bad?”

“Yeah, but only because I only got you books and alcohol.” She says, a tad mournfully, setting aside the empty box and resting her gaze on the small box nestled inside several sheets of tissue. “I have to say, I’ll be really impressed if you managed to find a box smaller than this to fit inside it, though.”

He can feel sweat gathering against the back of his neck, slick on his palms. “Open it.” He manages, surreptitiously wiping his hands at the hem of his shirt.

“It’s going to be something totally anti-climatic, isn’t it?” She laughs, flipping the box open, the rest of her words are lost in her sharp intake of breath, her gaze finally flitting over to him; shaking slightly and resting on one knee.

“I actually had this big speech planned,” he confesses, resisting at the urge to wring his fingers together. “A really long, complicated one. It was long and fancy and the kind of stuff your mom would have liked, probably, but that’s— that’s not us, you know? When I was writing this all down, all I could think about was how much easier it would be if you were here with me. Doing this with me. And I figured that it all boils down to one thing, you know? How much I want you with me all the time. How much _better_ we are, together.” He gives a helpless shrug, his eyes stinging. “And if you’d let me, I’ll—”

She drops into a crouch then, throwing her arms around him before he has any time to react, her laugh ringing in his ears. “ _Yes_ ,” she tells him, breathless, planting a kiss solidly against his mouth and making him grin. “Yes, you _idiot_. I can’t believe you had me going with all those boxes, and the—”

“You didn’t even let me finish my speech,” he says, mock-reproachfully. “Maybe it didn’t end off with a proposal. Maybe it’s all just a false alarm, and you’re celebrating but—”

“Bellamy,” she mumbles against his lips, fingers already working at the hem of his shirt, flitting over to the buckle of his belt. “Your wife needs you to shut up, right about now.”

He laughs at that, hands reaching up to cradle at the back of her head before flipping them over, laying her down on the rug, peppering kisses wherever he could reach. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever the hell you want, Mrs. Griffin-Blake.”


	70. snowstorm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'there’s a storm and omg i’m losing signal are you okay?? hold on let me drive 489432 miles to get you the night before christmas'

The burst of static over the line makes her wince, Bellamy’s voice flitting into sudden clarity. **  
**

“— where the _hell_ are you?”

“I made it back to my apartment.” She manages, stomping the snow out of her boots and slipping out of them, already shivering from the coolness of the room. “But the electricity is out so unless the storm lets up in a few hours, I’m pretty sure I’m screwed.”

His response is swallowed by yet another jolt of static; though she doesn’t miss the swear he hisses through his teeth, the panic peppering his voice. “Tell me that you have _some_ supplies, at least. Non-perishables? A torchlight?”

Rubbing at her face exasperatedly, she tucks her phone in the crook of her neck, working at the buttons of her soaked jacket. “No, but only because I thought the apocalypse was scheduled to happen next year instead.”

“This isn’t funny, Clarke.”

“It is, but only because I’m going to be _fine_ ,” she says, with an exaggerated amount of patience. “This storm is going to last a day, tops. I’ll bundle up, start clearing the things out of my fridge, and light a few candles, okay? It’s going to be peachy.”

He gives a frustrated huff at that, the one she recognizes to mean that he’s seconds away from a full-blown meltdown. “You know what? Forget it. I’m coming over.”

That gets an incredulous laugh out of her, the phone nearly slipping from her perch. “Jesus, Bell. There’s a raging snowstorm going on out there. Are you crazy?”

“I’ll see you in five minutes.” He says brusquely, before the line cuts out.

Clarke stares down at her phone for several minutes after, evaluating the likelihood of him actually doing something so absurd. On one hand, he could definitely change his mind. Anyone would, considering all they’d have to do is peer out of their windows to realize that they’re caught in goddamn _snowstorm._

On the other hand, it’s _Bellamy._ Stupidly noble and self-sacrificial is practically a speciality of his, at this point.

Sighing, she gets to her feet, peeling off her wet clothes and bundling herself in a assortment of sweaters and scarves. Then, pulling a beanie over her hair, she pads back over to the kitchen, already mentally assessing the likelihood—

She snaps out of her reverie at the muffled sound of keys at her door, the knob catching before it pulls open entirely; Bellamy striding in with flakes caught in his hair, a backpack slung over his shoulders.

Gaping, she drops her hands against the outside of her thighs with a loud smack. “I can’t _believe_ you, Bellamy Blake.”

Ignoring her statement pointedly, he unzips his backpack instead, busies himself by laying out several bottles of water and accompanying cans. “Baked beans sound good to you?”

Quashing the urge to nag at him about being a reckless, stubborn asshole, she settles for looping her arms around his torso instead, her face pressed into his shoulderblades. He smells faintly of coffee and cigarettes and the off-brand detergent he’s used all his life, and the familiarity of it all threatens to undo her. With a barely concealed wobble in her voice, she tells him, “You’re such a dick, you know that?” (In her head, it sounds a lot more like _thank you_.)

“At your service.” He says, smug, squeezing at her wrist before maneuvering out of her grip, grumbling about can-openers and safety regulations and the old fireplace that she never got around to getting fixed.

They have baked beans on bread (“Untoasted bread is the worse thing that has ever happened to me.” He remarks, grimacing, before taking another bite) and the remnants of the wine Clarke has stored in the back of her fridge. It’s _nice_ , she thinks, sitting cross-legged by the window with her afghan draped over them, music drifting out from the battery powered radio that came with the house. She’s drowsy with sleep, comfortable and yet filled with a kind of impulsiveness that she suspects has everything to do with Bellamy’s proximity- his hand resting on her knee and her head against his shoulder- when _Blue Christmas_ comes on.

“Up,” she tells him, grappling for his hand, pulling him up alongside her despite his grumbling. “Oh, come on. I know you love this song.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to dance to it.” He grouses, the arm winding around her waist belying his words.

They sway in silence for a little while; occasionally punctured by a giggle on her part, a mumbled complaint on his whenever she steps on his feet. In the end, she settles for laying her head against his chest instead, listening to the ever-steady _thump_ of his pulse.

“You know I would have done the same for you, right?” She says, nuzzling at his armpit affectionately, pressing closer when his chest rumbles with laughter. “I’m serious, Bell. I would walk through a snowstorm for you just so you wouldn’t be all lonely on Christmas.”

He doesn’t say anything to that, not right away- and just when she thinks he might just ignore it entirely, he goes, quiet, “I know. Because that’s who you are.”

She smiles, reaches up to pat at his cheek, tracing the curious scar by his mouth. He shivers under her, and for some reason, it only makes her smile wider. “That’s who we are.” She corrects, stroking her thumb across his jaw. “That’s who we are for each other.”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, leaning down so he could press their foreheads together, his breath warm and distracting against her lips. “Merry Christmas, Clarke.” (It sounds a lot more like _I love you_.)

Swallowing, she goes on her tiptoes, pressing a lingering kiss against his cheek; all the words she couldn’t bring herself to say- not now, not yet- in the meeting of her lips against skin, soft and warm and yearning.

“You too, Bellamy.” She whispers.

(She wonders, briefly, if it sounds like anything else to his ears.)


	71. sweater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'my mom knitted you a jumper' (slightly tweaked!)

All things considered, Bellamy should have really seen this coming. **  
**

“You’re joking.” He gapes, unrolling the bundle of fabric his sister had unceremoniously dropped into his lap minutes ago. “You’re not— you can’t expect me to give this to _her_.”

Octavia blinks over at him, tilting her chin in her best doe-eyed impression. She’s not that great at it considering how he can still spot the edges of a smirk lingering on her lips. “Why not? I think she’ll love it.”

“I can’t give Clarke a jumper that has _Blake_ on it.” He scowls, cheeks heating involuntarily. “That sends a wrong message, okay?”

That gets a eye-roll out of her accompanied by a light smack to his arm. “Oh, I’m sorry- isn’t the message still-” then, lowering her voice in what he supposes is a terrible approximation of his- “ _I have a big crush on Clarke but I have no idea how to show it_?”

“Not in those exact words.” He mumbles, folding his arms across his chest.

(He has to admit that she’s definitely got the gist of it, at least.)

“Definitely in those exact words.” She tells him, sighing. “Besides, it’s not like your stupidly sentimental gift is not going to tip her off about how you feel about her already.”

“My gift is _subtle_.” He says, prim. “Yours is the equivalent of a flashing neon sign in the middle of a pitch-black room.”

She arches a brow over at him, snorts. “Pretty sure you just described how obvious your feelings for Clarke are.”

“You’re the worse.” He informs her, petulant, before shoving the bag containing the jumper right to the back of their shabby Christmas tree. Tradition dictates that their friends display their gifts around the tree- and considering all of them are coming over this year- he’s pretty sure that no one would notice the lone bag sequestered at the back anyway. Abandoning his post by the tree, he starts setting out everyone’s mugs and the bags of marshmallows for the hot chocolate, groaning a little under his breath when the doorbell goes off.

He’s not _specifically_ keeping an eye out for Clarke or anything, but he does straighten, a little, when she comes through the door; making a beeline for him and propping her chin on his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says, trying not to sound too amused as she reaches over to dump more marshmallows into her mug, “are you trying to go for a record here?”

“It’s what I live for.” She says, grinning, snagging the cup off the counter. “Besides, I’m going to enjoy what I can before something irrevocably screws up. I’m betting on Jasper tripping over the Christmas lights and collapsing the tree.”

He clinks his cup against hers before taking a sip of his. “Well, my money’s on Monty getting drunk off the eggnog and confessing his love for Miller.”

She laughs at that; the sound bright and delighted, and he has to look away before he does something _stupid_ , like tuck her hair behind her ear or wipe the smear of whipped cream off her nose. “Deal. Winner gets all the marshmallows in the bag.”

“You’re on.”

Raven gets a Hallmark movie started up as they gather around the tree, mugs of chocolate balanced on their knees as the gifts are handed out. Miller gets him a pair of socks, as he does every year, whereas Octavia opts for a set of books that he’s been eyeing for awhile now. Raven gets him a proper toolbox (“you’re _welcome_.”) while Monty’s gift turns out to be a pair of boots to go _with_ the socks. (The pointed look he shoots Miller’s way is studiously avoided.)

He bites back a smile when he unwraps Clarke’s gift, his arms going around her shoulders instinctively. “Really? Again?”

“This one has two thousand pieces.” She tells him, ignoring the collective groan that goes up at that. “We can do it together and make a day out of it.”

“ _Nerds_.” Jasper coughs into his palm; only withering when he spots Clarke’s venomous gaze. “Oh, come on. I was joking.”

“Anyway,” Octavia interrupts, beaming. “It’s the last gift under the tree, and according to the card-” she makes a big show of flipping it over, humming slightly under her breath- “it’s for _you_ , Clarke. From Bellamy.”

His gaze darts instinctively to the tree- where he had left a set of neatly wrapped paintbrushes an hour ago- only to be hit by the realization that it’s gone.

“Shit,” he curses, turning back to Clarke, “hey, wait—”

He groans when she pulls the jumper out of the bag, unrolling it carefully to reveal the Blake stitched right in the centre of it. Raven gives a low whistle at that, Jasper breaking out into a frenzy of _holy shit it’s happening_ that gets progressively louder until Monty claps a hand over his mouth, steering him away.

Swallowing, he lifts his gaze to meet hers, flushed from head to toe. “Uh,” he offers lamely, shrugging. “You don’t have to wear it, or anything. I just— I thought—”

“I love it.” She smiles, pulling it over her head swiftly before he could make any sort of argument. “It’s cute.”

“Good.” He manages faintly, his breath catching as she settles into his side like she’s always belonged there, turning back to the movie as this was a daily occurrence.

He can only stare, for a good minute.

“What?” Clarke asks, snuggling closer. _Innocent._ “Are we not watching the movie?”

(It is possibly the best day of his life.)

“Nah,” he says finally, settling his arm over her hip and smiling into her hair, “we definitely are.”

“Good.” She murmurs, and he thinks he catches a glimpse of her flushed cheeks before she burrows closer to him.

(And if Octavia’s triumphant fist pump is met only by a half-hearted flip of the bird on his part, well. Let’s just say he’s a little too hopped up on the Christmas spirit to give a shit.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last Christmas prompt I'll post before I launch into the prompts you guys have sent me for the S4 countdown!


	72. we don't talk anymore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'bellarke as angsty exes with jealousy and some smut'

Three months after, and Bellamy’s still finding traces of her in his apartment. **  
**

He tells her as much when she barrels through the door, sliding the offending item across the table with enough force for it to land heavily on the ground.

“Whoops,” he goes, entirely unconvincing in its sincerity. “My bad.”

Casting a pointed glare over at him, Clarke drops into a crouch to grab at it, dusting it off carefully with her palm. “This isn’t even _mine_ ,” she huffs, slamming it back on the table. “Does it look like _I_ read The Aeneid?”

“It _is_ yours,” he snaps, crossing the room towards her so he could wave it in her face obnoxiously. A bad move on his part, considering how it brings him close enough to notice the mole above her lip that used to drive him crazy; close enough to notice how she still smelled faintly of vanilla. “I bought you a copy after I got sick of you stealing my shit all the time.”

That pulls a scoff out of her, the sound derisive. “You’re one to talk considering you’re still holding my Jimi Hendrix CD hostage.”

“Yeah, no way. You couldn’t pay me enough to listen to the crap you like.” He declares, folding his arms across his chest. “Sorry, Princess. Better luck elsewhere.”

Her gaze snaps up to his face at that, flushing slightly, and he tries not to appear too gratified that he basically just caught her checking out his arms.

“So, what?” she demands, sneering. “You called me here just to yell at me for leaving some stuff lying about at your place?”

“There’s that,” he remarks, dry, “and also because I want them out of my apartment. Make sure you check the bathroom before you go, too.”

Her face tightens with an emotion he can’t seem to place, something akin to hurt flickering in her eyes. It dissipates just as quickly, though, is replaced by something vindictive and vicious. “What?” she goes, saccharine sweet. “Did my tampons and hair brushes and bobby pins ruin your chances of getting laid?”

He reels back at that, stung- his heart squeezing painfully in his chest at the thought of Clarke wrapped around someone else. “ _No_.”

She falters at that, teeth snagging against her bottom lip. Then, hesitantly, “I thought… Octavia told me you were seeing someone. Gina.”

“It was a blind date,” he scowls, rucking his fingers through his hair. “She set me up because she was tired of me moping.”

 _Over you_ , he doesn’t add, swallowing hard. Looking at her now, it’s hard to believe that they’ve once screamed at each other until he’d gone hoarse, that she had burst into tears in the aftermath and proceeded to freeze him out for _weeks._ The anger and fear from before feels cold and small now, somehow. Distant. All that’s left is yearning and want and a urge to just fucking _hold_ her in his arms so bad that his hands shake with it.

Her tongue darts out to wet at her lips at that, the silence only growing. “Okay.” She says finally, dropping her gaze to the floor.

He’s scrambling for a way to break the awkward silence when it comes to him, the words spilling out in a rush, “Wait. You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

“No!”

“Octavia wouldn’t tell you about Gina voluntarily,” he points out, stepping cleanly in her path and backing her up against the wall. “You asked her, didn’t you?”

She blinks, the motion rapid before she composes herself, raising her chin defiantly. “So what if I am?” she challenges, jabbing a finger against his chest.

“So what?” he asks, incredulous. “ _Fuck,_ Clarke. You don’t have the right to keep tabs on me when _you’re_ the one who broke up with me.”

“Because all we did was fight!”

“Yeah, but I never wanted you to give up on us!” He explodes, shaking. “You just— You—”

“I ran,” she goes, finishing his sentence. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, the corners of her mouth quivering as she regards him. “Because that’s what I do when I’m scared. I thought— I kept thinking if that I avoided you, I’ll stop obsessing over how I just made the biggest mistake of my life—”

“Mistake?” he interrupts, trying valiantly to tamp down the surge of hope that rises in his chest at that. “You think breaking up with me was a mistake?”

“Yes,” she says plainly, wringing her fingers together as if bracing herself for something. “Do you—” she trips over the words, her breathing heavy in the quiet of the room, “— do you still…?”

He kisses her before she can finish the sentence, pushing her back against the wall and twisting his fingers in her hair. She gives a little gasp at that before recovering just as quickly, raking her nails down his back and kissing him so hard that he pulls away feeling distinctly lightheaded.

“God,” she keens when he drags his lips down to bite at her neck, soothing at the skin with his tongue after, “I was— did you have any idea how jealous I was of Gina? I actually looked her up on _Facebook_. I downed a whole bottle of tequila after because I couldn’t stop thinking about you bringing her to our date spots.”

He laughs, the sound lost somewhere in the crevice of her shoulder, fingers fumbling over the clasp of her bra before he finally unhooks it, dropping it to the ground. “Yeah, but I wasn’t the one who brought Finn as a date for that corporate retreat.”

Clarke nips at his jaw then, hands working at the hem of his shirt and pulling them over his head. “Trust me when I say he was the last possible option.”

“Sure,” he replies, easy as can be, his fingers easing her underwear to the side before sliding one in, making her moan with it. “You didn’t just bring him along to piss me off as much as possible, right?”

“I considered it.” She mumbles, the rest of her response lost with the twist of his fingers, her head thumping back against the wall almost painfully as she grapples for balance at his shoulders. “ _Bell_.”

He pauses, pressing a soft kiss against the corner of her mouth. “What?”

“Don’t tease.” She manages, freeing him from his pants clumsily. “Not now, okay?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, because it’s _Clarke_ and he’s never quite learned how to say no to her, anyway. Stroking at her cheek, he hitches her dress up to her waist, lining up against her entrance. “Just— are you sure?”

The promise in her eyes makes his breath hitch, as does the soft kiss she presses against his lips. “Yes, Bell.” She tells him, quiet. “More sure than anything.”

(She asks him again after, when they’re both sated and sweaty and sprawled across the living room floor; apprehensive and hopeful in equal measure.

“Yeah,” he manages, pressing a kiss against her hair and pulling her closer. “I still fucking love you.”)   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn it hailee.


	73. missing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'I would love to see a fic about Clarke fighting for Bellamy.'

Look, there are a few things that Clarke _really_ prides herself on. Staying calm and rational in the face of danger is one of them, definitely, as is the ability to remain unfazed at whatever curveball earth decides to throw her way.

She’s been here for a while, okay? She’s seen some weird shit. There’s not much that can get under her skin, at this point.

Well, except for when Bellamy goes _missing_ for twelve whole hours.

“You can’t be serious,” Raven goes, incredulous, when she catches her gearing up to head out. “Look, I know he’s a little late but I’m sure he’s fine.”

“He was supposed to check in _two_ hours ago,” she snaps, prowling the length of her tent until she manages to uncover Bellamy’s hunting knife concealed under a pile of blankets. Strapping it to her side, she marches out, gesturing for Raven to follow. “The last time we talked, he was crossing ice nation territory. And as much as I know you like Roan, well. I trust him about as far as I can throw him.”

That pulls an exasperated sigh out of her before she relents, dropping a walkie-talkie in Clarke’s upturned palms. “You seem to like Roan well enough when he’s not putting a sword through Bellamy’s leg.”

“I’ll like him better if it turns out he had nothing to do with Bellamy being M.I.A.”

“You’ll probably like people more, generally, if they stopped trying to kill Bellamy.” Raven muses, ignoring the withering look Clarke shoots her way. “It’s a short list.” She adds, patting at her shoulder comfortingly. “Have fun! And radio in once you’ve met up with your boyfriend.”

“I hate you.” She huffs for the lack of a better response, before heading out of the gates.

+

It’s not like Bellamy is her _boyfriend_ , or anything.

The only reason Clarke didn’t deny it entirely is probably because there is _some_ truth in her caring for him far beyond anyone else. But that’s how it’s always been with them: he’ll cross a field full of grounders to rescue her, and she’d let villages burn to keep him safe. He’d risk his life for her over and over again, and she’d fight tooth and nail to protect him from harm.

He saves her. She saves him right back.

So, yeah. The whole boyfriend thing just doesn’t seem to cut it when it comes to them.

(And if she harbours a secret fantasy or two about being with him from time to time- kissing and sex and holding each other- _well._ That’s her secret to keep. In fact, she should probably just… stop thinking about it now.)

+

Roan is there to receive her at the gates when she arrives, arching a brow in question when she slams the door of the Rover behind her.

“Where’s the other half of the dynamic duo?” he remarks dryly, drumming his fingers casually against the hilt of his sword.

Folding her arms across her chest, she sizes him up, evaluating the likelihood of being able to take him in a fight. Her chances are slim to none, though she does feel a little better when she thinks about the concealed pistol in her boot.

“That’s what I came here to ask _you_ ,” she says, drawing out the word pointedly. “The last time I checked, he was crossing your territory before he fell off the radar. Knowing that the Ice Nation has a penchant for taking prisoners only strengthened my suspicions that you have him held here.”

He considers this for a tense, drawn-out minute; long enough for her to start feeling antsy, reaching instinctively for Bellamy’s knife.

“Them,” he says suddenly, breaking the silence. “We have them, though not as prisoners. One of your men was injured en-route, so I very kindly extended an invitation to Bellamy to bring him to one of our healers. They’re probably still there.”

For a second, she can only stare. “Oh.” She manages, licking at her lips. “Well. Can you bring me there?”

“Considering how you’ve stormed all the way here to demand that I give you back your Bellamy? Sure.”

“My _people,_ ” she corrects frostily, falling into step next to him as he sweeps an arm out for her to follow. “I came here to get my people back.”

The look he shoots her is amused and pitying, all at once. “But you care about him more.”

Her cheeks heat at that, involuntary, and she resists the urge to do something childish like flip him off. “Let’s just make our way over in silence.” She declares primly, marching ahead while he trails behind her, shaking his head in a way that she knows is supposed to mean _kids._

+

Bellamy startles when she taps at his shoulder, hand going reflexively to his gun before she stops it by curling her fingers around his wrist, holding him still.

“Clarke,” he blinks, his relief palpable as he takes her in. It morphs into alarm quickly enough, his gaze roving over her for injuries. “Is something wrong? What— why are you here?”

“You’re seriously asking me that when you haven’t checked in with— any of us for hours?” She gapes, swatting at his shoulder angrily. “ _Jesus,_ Bellamy! I was worried sick! I thought you were lying dead in a ditch, or that Echo had finally gotten her claws into you—”

“The walkie-talkies died halfway through our trek,” he interrupts, frowning. “And then Bryan cut his arm on a tree branch, and Roan insisted that I bring him here. I was going to contact you whenever I found the opportunity to.”

“That’s not good enough!” Clarke seethes, her hands shaking by her sides. “Do you have _any_ idea what you put me through? I got in a car and drove all the way here, I _left_ everyone else behind—”

His fingers curl over her shoulders then, holding her steady. The regret and concern in his eyes makes her feel a little guilty for having shouted, but not enough to apologize for it. “I’m sorry,” he says, soft, rubbing at her arms in a placating fashion, “I should have figured out another way sooner.”

“You think?” she sniffs, feeling suddenly and stupidly tearful. “Put yourself in my shoes for a second. If it was me that was out there, you would have sent out ten search parties by now.”

That pulls a smile out of him, wry, belying the intensity of his words. “I would have run all the way here if I thought you were hurt.”

She gives a little watery laugh at that, dropping her face into his shoulder. His jacket smells faintly of the cool winter air, of gunpowder and mint and _home_. “God, the things we do for each other.”

She senses his smile rather than sees it, though the brush of his lips against her temple is unmistakable. “The things we do for each other,” he echoes, sliding an arm around her shoulders and tucking her into his side as the others begin filing out of the room. “You ready to go home now?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She murmurs, leaning into his touch slightly before disentangling herself from him; both of them leading the charge home.


	74. small spoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'The 5 times Bellamy complains about how his arm always falls asleep when they are spooning, and the one time Clarke becomes the big spoon and they both love it.'

**I.**

The first time they sleep together is out of necessity and necessity _alone._

They are in the bunker gathering ammunition when the snowstorm hits; the kind that leaves piles and piles of snow clumped over the door and brings temperatures down to Arctic levels. Bellamy’s the one who suggests the blankets, and she’s the one who reminds him that shared body heat is the most effective way of staying warm.

Sharing a bed is just the most _practical_ option at this point, really.

He hisses when her leg brushes up against his, the sound morphing into one of protest when she presses her toes against his calves. “Jesus. Alright, I changed my mind. Get your fucking feet away from me, Clarke.”

“Seriously?” she demands, wiggling closer to him instead. “You’re going to go to sleep at night, _knowing_ that you’re the one who caused me to lose all ten toes? Nice, Bellamy. I mean, I always knew that you—”

The words die in her throat when his arms circle around her waist, pulling her even closer than before. Up close, he smells just like how she always imagined him to be; all gunpowder and sweat and _boy_. It’s fitting, for him.

“Just go to fucking sleep already.” He mutters, burying his face into her shoulder, and yeah, okay.

She’ll grudgingly admit that she doesn’t _hate_ it, or anything.

“Don’t breathe so loud.” Clarke says, just to get the last word in, before sliding her arm over his to keep his in place.

The next morning brings about clear skies and waking up tangled around Bellamy’s form; his arm banded around her waist and their fingers interlaced. They don’t talk about it, except for when Bellamy grumbles about his stiff arm or when she makes snide remarks about his snoring.

(They don’t talk about how this is the most well-rested they’ve both been either, but Clarke supposes that _that’s_ expected.)

Still, she can’t help slipping in one last jibe as they trudge their way through the woods, cartons of ammunition in hand.

“You sure that you’re up for this considering how _sore_ your arm is?” she coos, grinning when he turns over to glare at her how he likes. “I mean, since you—”

She trails off into a shriek when his arm shoots out to tickle at her ribs, causing her to lose her grip on the carton entirely. He catches it before it hits the ground, the corners of his lips curving upwards at her indignation.

“Don’t worry, Princess.” Bellamy smirks, rolling out his shoulders. Her gaze tracks the movement unconsciously, and she has to remind herself not to flush when he catches her doing it. “They’re still in perfect working condition.” He adds, before walking off and towards home, whistling obnoxiously.

**II.**

The second time it happens is because of Finn.

There’s blood under her fingernails that she can’t quite seem to get out, and her jaw is throbbing from when Raven had decked her across the face. The air is thin, up in the mountains, and each breath she takes _hurts,_ like someone stuck a knife in between her ribs.

So when Bellamy brushes a hand over her shoulders, soothing; she grabs on, holding him in place.

She doesn’t have to tell him to stay, though he hesitates a fraction when she tugs him towards her bedroll. This time, he doesn’t swear at her when her hair gets in his face, just combs his fingers through them so it lies flat. This time, he falls asleep first, his even breaths lulling her to sleep after.

Clarke catches his grimace when he shoulders his rifle the next morning, his movements stiff and a little awkward.

“Sorry,” she tells him, rueful, falling into step next to him. “But if it makes you feel any better, there’s this crick in my neck that refuses to go away either.”

“It does, actually.” He says, with a small smile, his shoulder bumping up against hers companionably as they walk. The brush of his fingers against hers every few seconds is comforting, somehow, grounds her to the moment. Softens the edges of the hollow ache she still feels in her chest.

She swallows, forcing out a smile. “I’m still sorry, though.”

“It’s fine.” He goes, twining his fingers around hers, giving an encouraging squeeze. “See? Perfect working condition.”

She grips back with equal force, closing her eyes. Relying on him, in that moment, to keep her on her feet. “Good.”

**III.**

The next time it happens, it’s in Polis, and he’s the one who pulls her in his arms first.

“Sleep.” He orders, tightening his grip around her waist. They’re all scattered along various parts of the throne room, huddled under whatever meagre blankets they could rustle up under the circumstances.

His words are soft, doesn’t carry throughout the room, but she pushes closer anyway, turning over to face him instead.

There are dark shadows under his eyes, bruises lining his throat. The sight of it makes her ache- fury and sadness in equal measure- and she grazes her fingers against them, making sure to be gentle.

His eyes flutter shut at her touch, throat bobbing when she brings her hands down to rest against his chest.

“It’s hard to, considering the bomb that Allie just dropped on us.”

The sound he makes is half-snort, all disdain. “Figuratively and soon to be literally,” he manages, hands rubbing soothing circles against the small of her back. “You would think that the universe would cut us some slack after we’ve defeated a homicidal A.I.”

She buries her face deeper against his chest, breathing him in. “No rest for the wicked, right?”

“Guess not.” He says, wry, tensing a little when she traces at the symbol of his Ark jacket idly, too restless to stay still. “Hey, c’mon. At least _try_ to fall asleep here.”

Releasing a deep, shuddering breath, she butts her face against his shoulder, has to bite at her lip to stop the tears. “I can’t stop picturing it, you know? Having to tell everyone all of this tomorrow. Looking at all their faces. They’re going to _hate_ me.”

“None of this is your fault.” Bellamy insists, his voice rising slightly before he composes himself with a certain amount of effort. Then, so soft she almost misses it, “Us.”

She frowns, tilting her face up. “What?”

“You said they’re going to hate you,” he repeats, careful. “I’m correcting you. They’re going to hate _us_.”

Her breath seizes in her throat at that, eyes stinging.

“You’re not going to be by yourself.” He tells her, in a voice that leaves no room for further argument. “Because I’m going to be there the entire time, okay? I am with you. Now, try to get some rest because we sure as hell are going to need it for tomorrow.”

Clarke can feel herself relaxing at that, sinking into his touch. “Here you go again, trying to boss me around.”

“Only because I do it so well.” He goes, sarcasm dripping from every word.

She wakes up with her head pillowed against his chest, his arms tight around her waist. When he stirs, blinking down at her from a fan of lashes, it’s only to tell her in no certain terms that _she’s crushing the life out of his arm for the 100th time, so help him God._

 _Yeah_ , she thinks, flicking at his forehead in retaliation. _We’re going to be okay._

**IV.**

They never really break the habit of falling asleep with one another after that.

She likes to fall asleep with her head on his shoulder on trips out on the Rover. He always takes the long route back when this happens, likes to pretend that he took a wrong turn or that they needed something along the way anyway. Clarke humors him, mostly, and it’s nice when they have the time for it.

He likes putting his head on her lap, nudging at her wrist until she cards her fingers through his hair, soothing and affectionate. Sometimes, he falls asleep with his face pressed up against her stomach, and it’s a true test of her willpower to keep from shivering every time she feels his hot breath fanning against her skin.

Most of the time, though, she wakes up to his arm around her waist, and him hard against her ass. Those days are worse than most, really, because it would be so _easy_ to just turn around and kiss him senseless, but she holds back anyway.

At this point, it feels like they’re just waiting for something to tip them over the edge. Clarke just has no idea what.

In the end, it happens because she crawls into bed _after_ him, for once.

It’s disorientating, at first, waking up without Bellamy’s warmth wrapped around her. Blinking the grit out of her eyes, she’s greeted by the expanse of his back, her arms tucked under his shoulders to keep him close.

There’s no way of extricating herself without disturbing him, so she resigns herself to staying where she is for now. Plus, it’s not exactly hardship considering she has a uninterrupted view of his broad shoulders, his hair curling wildly against the nape of his neck.

Smiling a little to herself, she stares at the cluster of freckles speckled over the jut of his shoulder blade, wishing she could free her hand so she could trace it with her fingers. Feeling slightly emboldened by the steady rise and fall of his chest, she presses a kiss there instead, tasting the salt of his skin.

Swallowing, she lets her gaze stray lower, down—

He shifts at that, turning to face her so suddenly that she squeaks in surprise.

The look in his eyes is curious as he regards her. “You know,” he remarks, mild, “you don’t have to wait until I’m asleep to do that.”

“Yeah?” she asks, her pulse picking up at the slow smile spreading across his face. “You sure about that?”

He seals his mouth over hers at that, impatient and hot and _yearning._

“Am I _sure_ ,” he grumbles, disbelieving, in between kisses and making her laugh with it. “Jesus, Clarke. I’ve wanted this for so long. If I had known that the key to getting you to kiss me was getting you to spoon me first—”

“Shut up!”

“— would have spared me all those cramps I got in my arm from spooning _you_ —”

She silences him with another kiss then, revelling in the fact that this would be one of many, many more to come. “Hey, Bell.”

He gives a breathless laugh, pressing their foreheads together. “What?”

 _This is it_ , she doesn’t tell him, running her fingers through his hair. _This is the rest of our lives. It’s peaceful, and it’s good._

“Just shut up and kiss me already.” She tells him instead, grinning, pulling him down onto the sheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as a part of my S4 countdown celebration, I'm gonna be posting a drabble every day leading up to it and a 10k fic the day before the premiere! Kudos and comments are much appreciated, and here's to a good S4 y'all.


	75. if you're out on the road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Gilmore Girls AU with Clarke as Rory and Bellamy as Jess and all the 100 gang corresponding to some quirky character in stars hollow.' 
> 
> This ended up being a mix of jess/rory and luke/lorelai being bellarke but... yeah. But anyway, you guys don’t have to have watched gilmore girls to read this! Just think small-town bellarke being cute. The end.

You see, the thing is, Bellamy doesn’t _set out_ to be the town’s asshole. It just sort of happens. **  
**

It starts because it doesn’t occur to him that this arrangement he has with Kane is permanent. He figures that it’s only a matter of time before he and Octavia are allocated to another foster family, considering Kane is single and owns a diner and basically has a laundry list of traits that makes him a less-than-ideal foster parent. He fully expects to be gone by July; _August_ latest. And in the meantime, he’ll just go on with his life without putting down roots. Simple.

Of course, this loosely translates to him being standoffish and rude to most, hence the label. Not that he minds, all that much, since it ensures that he’s left alone most of the time. He has his books and his job and Octavia. That’s all Bellamy needs, really.

Until Clarke Griffin comes into his life, and proceeds to fuck everything up.

The first time he meets her, she’s behind the counter of the diner, helping herself to the coffee pot.

“Hey!” he barks, crossing the room in three easy strides and herding her out into the open, “what the hell do you think you’re _doing?_ ”

She blinks over at him, hands still clenched protectively over her cup. Then, suspiciously, “I’m— wait. Where’s Marcus?”

“Out.” He snaps, slinging a dish towel over his neck. “Look, I’m not sure what your deal is, Princess. But where I’m from, we pay for the stuff we get.”

She bristles at that, her gaze cold as she sizes him up. “I had every intention of paying. Ask your goddamn boss, he can vouch for me.”

“Well, luckily for you, he’s not available at the moment.” He shoots her a thin smile at that, extending his palm out. “That would be a dollar fifty.”

He’s expecting her to storm out after, or throw a tantrum, at the very least- so it definitely comes as a shock when she plops down by the counter instead, sipping at her coffee before she cracks open a book.

“You know,” he manages, once he’s composed himself. “That’s actually a to-go cup.”

That earns him a saccharine sweet smile on her part; practiced and distinctly condescending. “Well, I’m not planning on disrupting my morning routine on your account.”

“Glad to hear of it.” He deadpans, giving her a sarcastic half-bow of sorts before retreating back to the kitchen. (It doesn’t help that she’s reading Ender’s Game, which has been on his to-read list for _months_. He almost wished that she had bad taste so he could hate her for it.)

She comes back the next day, and the day after, too; always with a different book in hand but with the same breakfast order of black coffee and waffles. She always sits by the counter-  despite the numerous free tables available- and finds a way to get under his skin _constantly._ Whether it’s the incessant tapping of her nails against the countertop or folding the pages of her book or even, god forbid, _writing_ in the margins. It drives him fucking crazy, to the point where it’s impossible to stay quiet about it.

Look, Bellamy is committed to his cause of self-isolation, okay? But not enough to idly look by as someone _vandalizes_ a book.

“If you’re going to start defacing your book again, I’d prefer it if you didn’t sit here.” He points out, curt, the next time he spots her with a pencil clenched between her teeth. “It ruins my appetite for pop tarts.”

“How is writing in the margins considered a sacrilegious act?” Clarke points out, mild, tilting her chin over at him in challenge. “If anything, it enhances the reading experience. I get to look back at my notes and see if I think of the book any differently now.”

“You can reflect on it without actually _writing_ it down in your book.”

She shakes her head at that, exasperated. Then, thrusting the book out at him, “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, mister.”

“Fine.”

(Bellamy thinks he catches a glimpse of a smile, then, but it could just be a trick of light.)

His initial plan had mostly involved ignoring her notes in the margins so as to prove a point, but he fails miserably in the end anyway. Her words are magnetic; insightful and intriguing and wholly impossible to miss, and there are times where he finds himself enjoying her thoughts more than the text itself. He finds himself writing back most of the time and it’s almost _easy_ to fall into a routine of sorts, after that; leaving pieces of themselves in between the pages and picking out the details found in the blank spaces.

They’re well through December when he realizes that he’s not going anywhere, and that he’s pretty much half in love with Clarke.

“You should probably tell her before the rest of the town does,” Miller tells him. They’re friends- despite his best attempts at resistance- and Miller likes to drop by for breakfast before heading to his job over at the inn. “It’s not like you’re _subtle_ , or anything.”

Bellamy can’t help but scowl a little at that. “I thought it would be a non-issue considering how half this town hates me.” He points out grouchily. “I’m an asshole, remember?”

“Yeah, but, like,” he searches for the words, shrugging, “an _endearing_ asshole. One with a love life that a lot of people are way too invested in.”

Groaning, he drops his head onto the counter with a solid _thump_. “Great. Just what I wanted.”

“Just tell her before Jasper does.” Miller sighs, patting at his shoulder in what he supposes is a comforting gesture. The intended effect is more awkward than it is soothing, but Bellamy lets it slide. “That guy is a major gossip.”

He mulls over it all through the lunch hour rush crowd, fucking up several orders in the process until Kane takes pity on him and shoves him behind the cashier instead. He doesn’t do any better in that regard either considering how it all goes out of the window the second Clarke walks through the door, toting a basket in hand.

“Do I _want_ to know?” he asks, jerking his chin over at the garland of ribbons weaved over the basket handles.

“It’s a Stars Hollow tradition,” she frowns, dropping the basket onto the counter. “Well, an outdated and antiquated one, at least. Women make the baskets, and the guys bid on them for the food and the company.” She punctuates the statement with a exaggerated roll of her eyes. “I tried asking Jaha if the guys could provide the baskets this time, and he nearly bit my head off.”

Grabbing at the mug that he’s beginning to think of as Clarke’s, he fills it with coffee, sliding it into her grasp. “So why participate, then?”

She shrugs, picking at the ragged ends of the ribbon. “It’s tradition, you know? Far be it for me to break it. Besides, I have some intel that Finn Collins is planning on bidding on mine this year, and he’s not all that bad.”

“Finn Collins?” he gapes. “As in, _boyband?_ As in, the guy who works over at the minimart?”

“Uh, I could do worse.”

“I don’t see how anyone is worse than Finn Collins,” he declares, hating the petulant note in his voice. “That guy barely has two brain cells to rub together.”

She fixes him with a look at that, inscrutable. “It’s not like I’m drowning in prospective bidders as of the moment.”

For some stupid reason, he flushes. “Right.”

There’s a tense, awkward beat, as if she’s _expecting_ him to say something else in response.

“So, anyway,” she says, averting her gaze. “I should probably get going. The bidding is starting up in a bit and I don’t want to be late.”

He blinks, has to remind himself to wipe the flummoxed expression off his face. “See you?”

“Yup.” She says, shooting him a tight, almost pained, smile. He watches her go for half a second, still attempting to reorder his thoughts into something comprehensible—

It all falls into place then- coming into the diner, her disappointment at his apparent disinterest- and he finds himself scrambling through the drawers of the cash register, muttering out a hasty excuse before emptying it and charging out.

“Hey!” he calls out, before she can get any further. “Shit. _Clarke._ ”

She stops in her tracks, her expression quizzical as he draws up next to her, panting.

“Sixty.” He says, in between breaths.

“What?”

Pulling out a wad of bills from his pocket, he presses it into her palm, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Sixty for your basket,” he says, swallowing. “And your company.”

She stares at him, the minutes dragging on—

Before she breaks out into a smile, bright and fucking _delighted_ , pulling one from him as well. “Took you long enough,” she goes, beaming, before looping her arm around his. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, reaching over to lace their fingers together; planting him in place. “I have time.”


	76. of happy accidents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'An accidental pregnancy fluffy fic with bellarke goodness.'

It only occurs to her that there’s something wrong when she starts retching at the smell of panther meat roasting over the fire. **  
**

Raven grabs at her shoulders when she begins to sway, setting her upright. “ _Jesus_ , Clarke. Are you sick?”

“I don’t think so,” she bites out, gritting her teeth at the sensation of bile rising up her throat. “I thought it was the virus that’s been making its rounds around camp, but I’m not feverish or coughing or anything like that. It’s probably just fatigue.”

Raven shoots her an unimpressed look at that. “You’ve been like this for _weeks,_ Clarke. I may not be a professional, but I don’t think retching and nausea is a symptom for fatigue.”

“No, but I get like this sometimes,” she points out, wiping at her mouth absently, “during my—” the words die in her throat at that, realization dawning “— my period.” She manages, her breath rushing out of her in a fell swoop. “ _Fuck._ ”

“What?” she asks, her eyes widening in alarm. “Clarke?”

It’s hard to stay calm when Raven’s looking at her like that; her palm coming up unconsciously to cup at her still-flat stomach. It’s i _mpossible_. Irrational. But she can’t quite remember the last time she had her period, and there had been reports of implants failing ever since they got here—

She swallows, meeting Raven’s gaze. “I think I’m pregnant.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence as she appears to process this. Then, haltingly, she goes, “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She goes, biting at her lip. “I’ve been sore and achy for weeks now. Plus, I haven’t had my period in a while, and the nausea, the dizzy spells…” she trails off, releasing a shaky breath. “I should— I should get a checkup.”

Raven nods, pragmatic as ever. “Okay. As far as I know, Abby’s not back from her little diplomatic jaunt with Kane over to the ice nation yet, so. Now’s a good time for it.”

“Okay,” she echoes, falling into step next to her as they make their way towards the medbay.

They lapse into silence on the walk over, Raven’s hand resting against the small of her back steadily as they trek across uneven ground. The unspoken question hangs heavily in the air, weighing at her chest.

“It’s Bellamy’s.” She blurts out, tucking her quivering fingers into the pockets of her jacket. “I’ve— we’ve been sleeping together for a while now, and I _meant_ to tell you, but—”

“Clarke,” she cuts in, firm. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, okay? Besides,” she goes, with a little smirk, “it’s not like you guys are subtle, or anything. I figured it out months back.”

She chokes out a laugh at that, dropping her forehead against Raven’s shoulder. “Figures.”

“Your boyfriend is terrible at being sneaky.” She grins, patting at her hair. “Generally, a good tip at being discreet involves not gaping at your secret girlfriend in awe and admiration every five seconds.”

“He doesn’t _do_ that.”

“I’m sorry, do you want me to rig up a camera so I can get it on paper for you?”

Sniffling, she swats at Raven’s shoulder playfully before pulling her into a hug, smiling into her shoulder. “How are you still _joking_ at a time like this?”

“Don’t look at me, I’m not the one who’s possibly knocked up.” She teases. Then, almost as an afterthought of sorts, “Besides, I know it’ll work out. You’re going to be okay.”

The words slip out before she can stop them; small and afraid. “What if he doesn’t want the baby?”

“Do _you_ want the baby?”

She closes her eyes reflexively at that, a tremor running down her spine. “Yeah,” she murmurs, her thoughts inadvertently straying to a baby with his curls, bronzed skin and chubby cheeks and wide smile. _Theirs_. “I want it.”

“Then we’ll work something out.” Raven shrugs, pulling away slightly so she could tug at her arm instead. “C’mon.”

As it turns out, it’s a _girl,_ and she’s two months in.

She’s too nervous to get dinner after, opting for an early night instead and curling up in his sheets to wait. There’s no need for sneaking around with her mom gone, so she sheds her clothes and slips on one of his tees instead, trying valiantly to get herself to relax.

Bellamy ducks in just as she’s on the brink of sleep, sliding an arm across her waist and pressing a kiss against the back of her neck. “Hey.”

“Hi.” She says, turning over to face him. The fabric of his jacket is cold against her cheek when she nuzzles at him, and he still smells faintly of the cool winter air. “Did you eat?”

“Yeah, and I saved you a plate.” He says, pushing up on his elbows and shedding his jacket, pulling off his boots after. “Everything okay?”

Her stomach twists at that. “I’m fine,” she squeaks, forcing a smile. “Just, uh. Tired.”

He stares at her, worrying at his lip with his teeth. “Harper told me you went in for a checkup, this afternoon.” He starts, hesitant, and the undercurrent of anxiousness and worry in his voice makes her feel infinitesimally more guilty than before. “And, uh. Fuck, I’m not trying to panic over here, but I’ve been going out of my _mind_ thinking about it.”

“Bell—”

“Are you sick?” he asks, his voice breaking on the word. “Or hurt? Did something happen when I was out on patrol?”

“I’m pregnant,” she says, the words tumbling out in a jumbled rush. “And— and I really want to keep it. I know we should talk about this, and that you probably have—”

“You’re _pregnant_ ,” he repeats, shell-shocked, brows rising up to his hairline. “And— and you want to keep it.”

Giving an impatient huff, she props herself up, formulating the argument she already had in mind. “I know that it’s going to be hard, okay? But I have no doubt that if I was going to do this with anyone, it’s going to be you. There’s no one else I rather do this with; no one else I rather _be_ with, and—”

He surges over to kiss her then, messy and too much teeth, his laughter bright against her mouth and his hands inching lower towards her stomach. “A baby, Clarke. Jesus. _Our_ baby.”

“That’s what I was trying to tell you, yes.” She says dryly, though it’s almost impossible to keep the smile off her face when he’s looking at her like that; boyish and excited and _warm_. Bellamy has always worn happiness well, though he’s never had much of a chance to. She finds herself memorizing every detail of his face then, her heart trebling in size. “She’s about two months old.”

“Two months,” he says, hushed, the words reverent rolling off his tongue. “Holy shit, Clarke. I can’t—” he rubs at his face, throat bobbing as he swallows. “I can’t believe this is happening to us.”

She threads her fingers through his curls lazily, pulls him down for a kiss; long and deep and thorough. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, pressing their foreheads together. “With everything that has happened, I just— I can’t—”

He doesn’t need to verbalize it for her to understand, doesn’t need to tell her about the same thoughts that plague her constantly, too. With everything that has happened, it’s difficult to believe that they could have this, sometimes, that they could be _happy_. They’ve done abominable things over the years for love, for their people. To have something for themselves- something good and pure and easy- feels like an abstract, far-away concept; intangible and distant.

“We deserve this,” she murmurs, summoning the words that she tells herself at night; on the days where the bad outweighs the good, and on the days where it gets hard to breathe. “We deserve this, and above all, we deserve to be happy.”

That pulls a small smile out of him as he reaches over to kiss at her cheek, her jaw, wherever he could reach. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Bellamy breathes, rubbing soothing circles against the skin of her belly. “We should probably focus on the important part anyway.”

She lays her hands over his, twining their fingers together. “And what’s that?”

The corners of his lips inch upwards at that; the beginnings of a familiar, brilliant smile. “Names.”


	77. cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Canon-verse with Bellamy taking care of sick Clarke.' 
> 
> A missing scene from season one prompt!

It goes without saying that they’ve lived through some pretty fucked up situations on earth. Acid fog. Grounders. Bellamy’s not going to get into the whole two-headed deer debacle, but it’s suffice to say that it’s _out there._ **  
**

But, really. The worst of it has to be when Clarke falls sick.

He’s pretty sure that it’s the last strain of the flu that has been working its way through the camp for weeks now, but it still renders her into a sniffling, feverish mess anyway. She’s barely coherent during their usual debrief sessions and he catches her attempting to bandage Monroe’s perfectly good knee instead of her scraped one. His gentle rebukes that she should probably, you know, _rest,_ are met with skepticism and dismissiveness; with her constant, stubborn insistence being that she’s _fine, Bellamy, and shouldn’t he go hover over someone else now?_

(It’s unfortunate that she’s impervious to his glower, so he mostly sticks to stomping around and glaring at her from a distance.)

He holds out for as long as he can; biting his tongue whenever he’s tempted to comment on how tired she looks and sending his lackeys to help her out with her mundane tasks. It seems to be working, for the most part- and just when he finds himself relaxing, the inevitable happens.

Clarke _faints._

(His first thought, surprisingly, isn’t I told you so. It does come somewhat close, though.)

She stirs just as he rounds the corner towards her tent, re-adjusting her slightly in his arms.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty.” He grins, because teasing Clarke, unfortunately, still remains high on his list of favorite things to do. “Nice of you to join us.”

She squints over at him, brows knitting together in confusion. “Bell’my?”

“The one and only.” He deadpans, tightening his grip on her waist when she shifts. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been speared in the chest.” She mumbles, burrowing into his warmth for half a second before she jerks upwards, her nails digging into his biceps. “Are you— you’re _carrying_ me?”

“It’s a standard service for when people faint on me.” He tells her, mild, biting back a laugh at the embarrassed flush that works its way up her neck.

Groaning, she swats at his chest weakly. “I’m fine, okay? You can put me down now. I know you have a guard detail scheduled soon anyway.”

“Swapped with Miller.”

She gapes at that, incredulous. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t trust you to not make a break for it the second my back is turned.” He grunts out, ducking under the tarp and depositing her none-too-gently onto the bed. “Look, Clarke. You’re becoming a liability now, okay? I know you want to pull your weight, but you need to _rest_ before your body gives out on you.”

Her mouth twists at that, petulant. Then, stubbornly, “I’m feeling a lot better already anyway, so. I think I can manage a shift at the med bay at least.”

“They don’t want you there,” he declares flatly, arching a challenging brow her way. “Harper told me that if you show up, she’s going to strap you to one of the beds and keep you there.”

“ _Harper_ said that about me?”

“Apparently, you tried to arrange the bandages by color but you ended up unwinding all of them instead.” He explains, tugging the sheet out from under her and throwing it over her legs. “You’re more of a hindrance these days than anything.”

He didn’t think Clarke Griffin had it in her to sulk, but here they are. Shaking his head ruefully at her, he pushes at her shoulder gently until she lies back. “Alright, we good? You got it? Now go to sleep.”

“Fine.”

“See? Not that hard, right?” he smirks, dropping himself onto the salvaged milk crate that they’ve been using as a chair. “G’night.”

She pushes up on her elbows at that, sniffling. “You’re not going?”

“So you can dart off five seconds after I leave?” he goes, snorting. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” Then, at her apprehension, adds, “Don’t worry, Princess. I’ll be gone by the time you get up.”

That pulls a impatient huff out of her, though at least she does yank the sheets up to her neck. “That didn’t even _occur_ to me.”

He bites at his lip, tapering yet another smile. “Good.”

His initial plan was to stay fifteen minutes, tops- but she starts shivering at the ten minute mark, dissolving into full-on tremors quickly after. The most logical course of action, he knows, is to get someone, _anyone_ , who understands this better than he does, but he’s struck dumb by the sight of it all, reaching out instinctively to hold her still—

Her eyes flutter open at that, bleary, before focusing on him. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” he swallows, rucking his fingers through his hair nervously. “You’re— do you need me to get you more blankets? Harper? Or tea? Fuck, Clarke. We need to—”

Her fingers curl around his wrist at that, tugging. “You’re warm.”

He can’t help the strangled noise that leaves his throat in response. “If you’re cold, I can always get you more blankets, or I can get someone—”

“Please.” She says plaintively, and he feels his resolve dissolve right down to his toes.

Carefully, he pries the blanket off her, slipping in behind her and pulling her close. Her skin is cool, clammy to touch, and he tries to tamp down the rising worry in his chest by rubbing soothing circles down the length of her arm.

She seems to like that, if the pleased noise she makes is any indication. “Feels nice.”

“Are you sure we shouldn’t be getting you blankets? Or anything else?”

“This is fine.” She murmurs, drowsy, turning over to nuzzle at his chest, her arms circling around his waist. “This is good. I’m safe.”

A lump rises in his throat at that, his eyes stinging.

“Yeah,” he tells her, pressing a kiss against her hair before he can lose the nerve, “you’re safe, here.”

(Bellamy wakes up the next morning with the worse headache and a hacking, persistent cough that refuses to fade despite the amount of tea he drinks. Clarke insists on trailing after him all day, _smug_ , and he barks at her to go away after he catches her eyeing him for the _fifth_ time.

He lasts two days before letting Clarke curl up into bed next to him, her nails scratching at his scalp comfortingly; falling asleep to the sound of her deep, even breaths.)


	78. knicks and bulls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Could you do Bellamy and Clarke sitting next to each other at some kind of sporting match, both passionately supporting opposite teams, please??'

At this point, she’s pretty sure he’s doing it _just_ to spite her. **  
**

“You’re kidding,” Clarke groans, when the enormous foam finger he’s toting smacks her right in the face. “Seriously, Bell? Up until last week, you had no idea who the Bulls were.”

He glances over at her, smug, before reaching over to knock her own Knicks hat out of place. “That’s a blatant lie, considering I’ve been an avid supporter of the Bulls since they kicked the Knicks _ass_ in the last match.”

She rolls her eyes at that, swiping at the plate of nachos balanced delicately against his arm. “Actually, the Knicks won with a staggering 104 to 89 last match.”

“Ah,” he goes, faltering slightly. Then, as if taking strength from the fact that he’s surrounded by a thousand others dressed exactly like him, he continues, “Well, that was a fluke. So.”

“Oh, my god!” she hisses, letting her hands fall against her thighs with a loud smack. “Will you just stop, already? I _said_ I was sorry!”

That pulls a scowl out of him, lips twisting into a stubborn pout. “No. Not until you take it back.”

 _It_ , she supposes, refers to the one time she had laughed (a little!) derisively when Bellamy had mentioned something along the lines of watching the occasional basketball match to unwind. The whole conversation had been a little hard to believe- considering she was pretty sure that he had only said it to impress a girl at the sports bar, and that she had actually witnessed him falling _asleep_ during one of Miller’s many hockey matches.

Look, this is Bellamy they’re talking about, okay? She’s seen him _actually_ get teary eyed over a documentary on the Byzantine empire. A bunch of sweaty guys dribbling a ball around is hardly going to hold his interest.

“I’m not taking it back because it’s true,” she huffs, taking a bite out of her stolen nacho. “Bell, you _hate_ sports. Why can’t you just admit that?”

“Because you’re wrong.” He shoots back, easy as can be, before reluctantly dragging his gaze back to the game before him. “Yeah! Bulls!”

She can’t hold back her snort this time as she turns over to arch a single brow at him. “You do know that your team was just caught committing a foul, right?”

He stares blankly back at her for half a second before it seems to register that a foul isn’t exactly the best thing to happen. “That’s why I was cheering,” he blusters, folding his arms across his chest. “To be _encouraging_.”

“God, you’re so full of shit.” Clarke sighs, shifting a little closer so he could hear her above the din. “Alright, so a foul…”

She ends up explaining most of the mechanics of the game to him, even going so far as to pull up the Bulls team and player stats for the year. To his credit, he listens in rapt attention most of the time, even cheering a little when they’re granted a penalty shot, and it’s pretty fun, to be entirely honest. He’s rowdy and enthusiastic, albeit a little clueless, and Clarke has to admit that the company is nice.

“So, who’s in the lead now?”

“Knicks is leading by a ten point margin,” she explains, stealing a quick sip from his soda. “Which means that they have it in the bag, mostly, but I guess we’ll see how the Bulls do after the timeout. The most likely scenario being—”

The words die in her throat at the sudden roar that goes up, her attention directed back to the jumbo screen. Suppressing another groan, she slumps down in her seat, watching through her fingers.

He looks over at her, amused. “Huh. I didn’t think the Kiss Cam was an actual thing that happened, you know?”

“This should be a rude awakening for you then,” she cringes, as the booing starts up. “They’ll stop when the camera pans over to someone else, I swear.”

Bellamy remains strangely unruffled, despite the sheer amount of hostility directed their way. Shrugging, he goes, “I figured, but. It’s not like it’s a big deal, right?”

She straightens at that, doesn’t even attempt to _conceal_ her surprise. “What?”

“It’s just a kiss,” he continues, oblivious, though she can’t help but notice a flush creeping over his neck. “No big deal, right? I’m game if you are.”

Clarke blinks, wondering if she should be surprised that she’s actually _considering_ this. Pros: she would finally be able to find out if his lips are as soft as they look. Cons: it might possibly alter friendship entirely, though that seems a little hard to achieve from a tiny peck on the lips.

“Fine,” she goes, wetting her lips surreptitiously. “Let’s give the people what they want.”

“Sure,” he hums, before sliding his hands into her hair and kissing her.

It’s distinctly _not_ a peck on the lips like she expected it to be. Bellamy kisses like how he talks; warm and firm and all _confidence_. Her breath hitches when he slides his tongue against hers, playful, and a small moan escapes as she pulls him closer, seeking more of his warmth.

The boos have turned into catcalls by the time they pull apart; their breathing ragged and lips swollen.

He swallows, his throat bobbing wildly. “So.”

“So,” she echoes, a breathless laugh escaping. Distantly, she recognizes that the game is starting up again, the announcer’s voice blaring in the background accompanied by the squeak of rubber against linoleum. It’s a little hard to bring herself to care, though, considering she’s thinking if Bellamy’s hair is as soft and pullable as it looks.

His smile is small, a little tentative. “You wanna get out of here?”

A small part of her is tempted to agree, even though she’s been looking forward to this game for weeks. Plus, the Knicks are actually winning. It’d be doubly satisfying, she tells herself, just to see how the Bulls fans react to their loss.

But also, she _really_ wants Bellamy to do that thing with his tongue again.

“Let’s go.” She manages, grabbing at his hat and throwing it into the crowd before lacing their fingers together, pulling him up with her. And hey, at the very least, she’s getting the opportunity to rip a Bulls jersey right down the middle. It’s the small victories, really.  


	79. jurassic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Palaeontologist!Bellamy.'

Generally, Bellamy’s job description doesn’t involve dealing with billionaires and their hotshot lawyers, and _yet_ here they are. **  
**

“For the _last_ time,” he huffs, his arm curling instinctively around her waist to haul her away from the excavation site, “I’m really not interested in advocating some theme park for extinct animals, okay?”

“Dinosaurs,” the girl- _Clarke_ , he reminds himself- tells him, her mouth twisting into a frown. “And why wouldn’t you? Look, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but Jurassic Park is going to be a revolutionary experience. Thelonious Jaha has—”

“ _Jurassic Park_?” he manages, a derisive laugh escaping. “Yeah, that’s the final nail in the coffin. I’m not advocating anything that sounds as if they sell brachiosaurus shaped churros out front.”

The crinkle between her brows deepens at that, and he tries not to appear too smug at having gotten to her. “It’s actually triceratops shaped, and they’re marshmallows.”

“So you guys couldn’t even get churros? That’s rough.”

She spins on her heel, stepping cleanly into his path and forcing him to stop short. “Look, Dr. Blake. You’re leaving this site in about two weeks, right?”

He stares, biding his time as he weighs the possible ways in which she could twist his answer into a less than ideal situation for him. Fucking lawyers.

“Yeah,” he says with exaggerated slowness, bracing himself for a fight. “So what?”

“So,” she goes, mimicking his tone, “tie up your loose ends, and I’ll _personally_ escort you down to Isla Nublar after, where I’m sure Thelonious will be more than happy to discuss the possibility of funding your paleontological dig for the next three years.”

It’s hard to conceal his shock at that, though he does try his damn hardest. Dusting his hands off on his pants, he pretends to consider it for all about three seconds before he bites out, “It’ll be about two weeks.”

The obnoxious tilt of her chin makes him feel as if she’s the one issuing the challenge, instead. “Fine.”

“It means you’re going to have to stay here on site for two weeks, Princess.” He sneers, deliberately running his gaze from the office blouse she has tucked into her pencil skirt down to the delicate heels strapped around her ankles. “Sure you can handle it?”

Her smile is saccharine sweet; practiced. “I don’t think _I’m_ going to be much of a problem, Dr. Blake.”

It’s impossible to miss the little jibe she made there, but Bellamy decides to let it slip anyway. “If you’re sure, Ms. Griffin.” He smirks, accompanying it with a mocking bow. “Make yourself at home.”

+

He catches her trying (valiantly) to pitch a tent a few hours after; heels sinking in the sand and immaculate updo a mess on the top of her head.

“Shouldn’t someone tell her,” Miller interjects, mild, “that we have trailers to stay in?”

“Nah,” he grins, watching as the unsecured poles sway and clatter back to the ground, her frustrated half-shout lost in the wind. “I think she’s having fun. Maybe it’ll help dislodge the stick up her butt.”

The look Miller shoots his way is pointed. “You do realize that this is the girl that’s supposed to assist us with getting funded for the next couple of years, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“So shouldn’t we be making sure that she gets out of this _alive_?” he goes, exasperated. “And like, make her experience here as pleasant as possible? Considering she’s the one with the connections to Jaha?”

He can’t help the snort that escapes at that, directing his attention back to the chisel in his hand. “She’s just a messenger. Plus, I’m pretty sure he’ll give us the funding as long as I give their stupid theme park five stars on Yelp, or something.”

“Right,” Miller nods, thoughtful. Then in a voice that’s way too innocent for his liking, “So, it’s not likely that she’ll rescind the invitation at _all,_ right?”

“Not when they need me.” He snaps, though he can’t help sneaking a quick peek over at her. She’s gotten the poles secured this time, at least, though she seems to be struggling to get it upright with the howling of the wind. The look of grim determination on her face would be comical, if he didn’t already know how brutal the winds could get at this time of the year.

Scowling, Bellamy rubs at his face, gets to his feet. “Don’t start,” he mutters darkly, stomping over to her and flipping Miller off when he begins to laugh.

+

Surprisingly enough, she doesn’t stay cooped up in her trailer like he expects her to.

It’s not like he _wants_ to notice her, really, but she tends to be a conspicuous presence; all infectious, lilting laugh and bright hair gleaming under the sunlight. It takes her a matter of _days_ to charm almost everyone else on site, which annoys him for reasons that he can’t really fathom. Even _Raven_ has taken to her, for fuck’s sake, and she hates about ninety eight percent of the entire human population.

(Fine, maybe he’ll admit that it’s a little unnerving that she’s turned this supposed charm on for everyone else but him. Not that he’s keeping track, or anything, but considering the way she glared at him when he helped himself to second servings this morning? Yeah. Nothing’s changed on that front.)

He’s dusting off what possibly might be a velociraptor skull when she plops down next to him, drawing her knees up to her chest. “Dr. Blake.”

“Griffin,” he says tightly, sparing her a quick glance before getting back to work. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Not much,” she shrugs, running her fingers idly over the series of brushes he has lined up next to him. “I just came over to see what you’re working on.”

Arching a brow over at her, he sets his brush down on his knee. “I didn’t think you were interested in fossils.”

“I’m a _lawyer_ for someone who’s opening up a dinosaur-themed amusement park,” she says, in a voice that suggests the statement be followed up with a pointed _duh._ “You’d think I’ll do that if I had no interest in dinosaurs whatsoever?”

“Honestly?” he snorts, raking his gaze over her once more. She’s changed, though he’s pretty sure the clothes aren’t hers from the way they hug to her every curve. Her skin is pink from the sun, a splattering of freckles evident against the side of her jaw, and he tries not to think about how _nice_ she looks with her hair loose. “Yeah, probably. I don’t have a very high opinion of lawyers.”

That pulls a disgruntled noise from her. “Oh, yeah. You definitely kept that under wraps. Couldn’t tell at all.”

“Shut up,” he grouses, bumping his elbow against hers. “Besides, it’s not like you made the best first impression. You came down in a _copter,_ which disrupted our work for an whole hour. You started off your pitch by telling me how _lucky_ I was to be hand-picked by Jaha.”

Clarke makes a noise of mock-outrage at that, slapping at his arm lightly. “Please. I had a script to follow, okay? I didn’t think you’d take it that personally.”

“Well, I’m really in touch with my feelings.”

“Duly noted,” she deadpans, rolling her eyes at him. “Though to be entirely honest, Jaha wasn’t the one who picked you. I did.”

He frowns, turning over to look at her. “You did?”

“Yeah.” She says briskly, averting her gaze. “I looked at a bunch of files, and I thought you were the best candidate. I mean, you weren’t under consideration before, but I added you in because of the paper you wrote, and—”

“You read my _papers_?” he laughs, grinning when her cheeks pink in response.

“Fine, I did.” She mumbles, folding her hands in her lap. “So, uhm. Maybe your paper on viewing dinosaurs as cultural icons is what made me decide to approach Jaha in the first place.”

It’s a little hard to keep his smile from showing at this point, and he finds himself trying to catch her eye despite her sudden shyness at being caught out. “Wow. I can’t believe my own impact, sometimes.”

“It was a really well-written paper,” she argues, crossing her arms over her chest. Then, a little dramatically, “Too bad the author is kind of a dick.”

Whistling, he picks the brush up once more, twirling it between his fingers cockily. “You’re just mad because you revealed yourself to be one of my groupies.”

“You _wish,_ Bellamy Blake.”

The rest of the afternoon passes exactly like this; bickering and talking and maybe a little flirting, too, and by the end of it, he’ll willingly admit that maybe he can see the appeal that Clarke Griffin has going for her.

(Okay fine, he _definitely_ gets the appeal now.)

+

He doesn’t object when she starts joining them during digs, snapping photos or dusting off fossils right alongside him; her brows furrowed in concentration and tongue poking out from between teeth. Besides, she’s pretty helpful, and it’s nice for him to be able to talk about his discoveries at length without worrying about boring her. She starts joining him during mealtimes, too, always settling in next to him like she belongs there; to the point where he starts _looking_ for her when she doesn’t show up.

If he was being totally and entirely honest with himself, he’d admit that they’re sort of- kind of- friends, now. Or fun work colleagues, at least.

It’s probably why he can’t help feeling a little excited about the whole Jurassic Park venture, even though he’s willingly spending hours stranded in a tiny, cramped helicopter. Swallowing, he adjusts at his seatbelt; his pulse skipping erratically when she reaches over to adjust the headphones clamped over his ears, grinning.

“Ready for this, Dr. Blake?”

He’s not sure what possesses him to say it, really, but he finds himself telling her, “It’s Bellamy, okay? Just— stop being all formal, already.”

Her grin is fucking _blinding_ under the light of the rapidly setting sun, and he’s not sure if the swoop he feels in his stomach is in reaction to her or the jerk of the copter as it begins to ascend in the sky.

“Clarke,” she says, mock-solemn, a small smile playing on her lips as she offers her hand out to shake. “And now we have that out of the way— you ready to go?”

He can’t help squeezing at her palm when he slides his fingers against hers; warm and reassuring and filled with some sort of possibility that makes him grin stupidly at her. “Bombs away, Clarke.”


	80. things you said when you were asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'things you said when you're asleep.'

**I.  
**

You see, Clarke doesn’t _mean_ to make it a habit of falling asleep on him. It just happens.

The first time is after the camp comes down with the flu. She- along with the rest of the affected- are sequestered into the makeshift quarantine zone which basically comprises of the dropship and several blankets reinvented into curtains.

She’s cold and achy and fucking exhausted, and his fucking _pacing_ is anything but conducive to her situation.

“Will you cut it out, already?” she whines, mostly because she doesn’t have it in her to argue, at this point. “Just sit down and drink your tea.”

He stops short at that, spinning on his heel to look at her instead. His eyes are tinged red, hair rumpled, and she knows for a fact that he’s been using the edge of his sleeve to wipe at his nose. (She might have called him out on it if she had the energy, but considering that it’s sapping almost all of hers to keep herself upright, she decides to spare him instead.)

“I don’t take orders from you, Princess.” He retorts, deflating just as quickly as he sinks down onto his haunches next to her; his frame sagging against the wall. “God, I can’t believe this is the way we’re going out.”

“With clogged sinuses and snot everywhere?” she chokes out, closing her eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.”

“Figures,” he grumbles.

Her response is mostly lost in a series of hacking coughs; her eyes stinging and voice raspy when she finally manages to speak. “I’m probably going out before you, so _that_ should make you happy.” She points out. “Gives you exactly what you want, and spares you the trouble of yanking off my wristband.”

It’s physically impossible to keep from staying upright, then, so she gives in and slumps over instead; her head landing somewhere in the vicinity of Bellamy’s shoulder. He makes a noise of protest at that, but doesn’t pull away either.

And in the moments before sleep, right before she gives in to the darkness building behind her eyelids- she thinks she hears it, his voice hushed against her ear.

He mumbles it like a secret, a rushed, _that’s not what I want either, Princess,_ and it makes her smile into his shoulder stupidly before it all fades away.

**II.**

It only happens again because one of their nightly debriefing sessions somehow ends up spiralling into a two-hour long discussion on bettering the camp.

“Honestly,” she goes, hitching her knees up to her chest. “Implementing more night patrols is just going to come right back and bite us in the ass, okay? Everyone will be too tired to get their usual stuff done in the day, and there’ll be more accidents and—” a yawn slips out before she can help herself, and she sways on the spot with the force of it before composing herself once more, “— we won’t be able to get anything done if half of our people are out of commission.”

He fixes her with a stare that can be best described as withering. “You didn’t get _any_ sleep last night at all, did you?”

“I did,” she counters, rubbing at her bleary eyes. “It’s just— fine, _maybe_ Harper may have interrupted at some point to tell me that Monroe broke out in boils, so it was pretty much impossible to go back to sleep after that.”

“Fucking kids,” he huffs, reaching over to roll up the map that she’d been filling in with all their recent discoveries on the new territories, “you’d think that they’ll be a little more self-sufficient with all these months on the ground.”

Swatting at his hand, she makes a half-hearted sound of protest. “I’m still working on that!”

He cocks his head over at her, exasperation written clearly over his features. “You’re falling asleep on all our hard work. Just go to bed, Clarke. We can do this tomorrow.”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles, fumbling fruitlessly for the small stub of a pencil that Bellamy still refuses to throw away. “I need to write it all down while it’s still fresh in my mind anyway.”

She manages to jot down a few more details before she finds herself nodding off once more; eyelids heavy and head pounding something fierce. It doesn’t really occur to her that she’s dozing off in fits and starts until she feels a weight against her shoulders, startling her out of it.

She relaxes when she realizes it’s just Bellamy- can’t help relishing in the brief warmth of his hands against her shoulders as he lays his jacket over her, tucking the sleeves in by her sides.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” She mumbles, the words a little garbled slipping off her tongue, unrestrained. “You don’t have to pretend to like me or anything.”

“What?”

It’s hard to stay conscious and coherent when she’s warm and content and cocooned in his jacket that smells comfortingly of him, but Clarke tries anyway. “Not a lot of people like me. Friendship, wise.”

She doesn’t even have to look to know that he’s _smirking_ , that bastard. “Could have fooled me, with Spacewalker and Jaha Junior constantly hovering over you.”

“Finn just wants to get in my pants,” she manages, slumping over. “And Wells has known me my whole life. He’s obligated to care about me.”

There’s a beat, at that, long enough for her to nod off once more. When she resurfaces, it’s to the sound of his voice.

“No one is obligated to care about anyone,” he mutters, brusque, his fingers ghosting over her hair and tucking them behind her ears. Then, in a resigned sort of voice, “Besides, I’m not pretending.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, the words dropping off her tongue fluidly as her eyes flutter shut, “I care about you, too.”

**III.**

Then there is the time she falls into a Grounder trap.

She doesn’t remember being carried back to camp, or what happens after, but she does wake up three days later with stitches marring her side and Bellamy sitting by her bedside; head bowed and knee jiggling restlessly.

Everything is fuzzy, blurring in and out of focus as she tries to take it all in. Distantly, she recognizes that Bellamy’s saying something, the familiar cadence of his voice drifting in and out of her ears. Closing her eyes to shield them from the brightness of the room, she focuses on his words instead.

“— you would have pissed yourself laughing if you’d been there. Octavia was so mad, she refused to bandage his ankle for hours.” A pause, followed by a ragged breath. “It’s been, uh. Hard, doing everything without you. I’m going a little out of my mind here.”

She aches to reach for him then, but her body feels sluggish and slow to respond, her muscles sore and achy.

“Miller’s been helping out, but it’s different, I guess. I keep finding myself _looking_ for you, everywhere I go, and—” his voice catches at that, dissolving into a broken laugh. “I just— God, Clarke. I need you. I miss you so fucking badly and the thought of losing you just kills me, you know that?”

It’s a good time as any to say something, really. _Anything._ It comes as no surprise that he needs her- that they need each other- but the intensity behind his words stuns her into silence; the knowledge that her absence would affect him so profoundly. Somehow, along the way, they’ve transcended from uneasy allies to _friendship_ and now… what?

The answer is right on the tip of her tongue- it’s what she feels when he’s the first thing she sees in the morning, sleep-mussed and grouchy. It’s knowing, instinctively, that he’ll save her a extra bowl of oatmeal on the days she’s on the night shift. It’s searching for him in a crowd of faces, seeking comfort in the touch of his hand against her back and the quirk of his lips.

She forces her eyes open, blinking the grit out of them. “Bellamy?”

His entire body sags in relief at that, dropping his head to his clasped hands while she reaches over to touch him anyway she can; thumb stroking at the skin of his neck reassuringly until his pulse begins to slow.

IV.

(They’ve been together for five months when he says it; murmured against the crook of her neck as rays of sunlight filter in through the patchy remains of their tent.

But this time, instead of staying quiet, she turns on her back, sliding her arm over his shoulders and kissing him senseless before telling him that, _yeah, she loves him, too.)_


	81. bleach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'Bellamy is a hairdresser and Clarke is the type of person who gets haircut to be Dramatic after breakups and other disasters.'

If he’s being honest with himself, Bellamy has to admit that he’s least partly responsible for what’s been going on with Clarke. **  
**

Fine, maybe _entirely_ responsible, considering he’s the one enabling her.

Still, he startles a little when she barges into his apartment, bottle of vodka in hand and a 7-11 bag in the other.

“Fuck,” he swears, zeroing in on the boxes of dye that are visible through the see-through bag. “What happened?”

“I got into a fight with my mom.” She sniffs, her knees wobbling dangerously before she plops down on his lap, sinking her head against his shoulder.

His arm goes around her- instinctive at this point- keeping her steady. “What happened?”

She peeks up at him from between her lashes at that, teeth snagging against her bottom lip nervously before she goes, “I was thinking about telling you while you worked on my hair.”

He groans, reaching over to twist a lock between his fingers. She had opted for pink, the last time, and the ends are now faded out to a cotton candy shade which he loves. “ _Clarke._ ”

“What? I was thinking blue this time. Blue would be nice.”

“I shouldn’t be encouraging this,” he grumbles, lifting her in his arms carefully before setting her down on the sofa. “You should be engaging in your other vices, like drinking and eating a obnoxious amount of french fries.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly puppylike; wide-eyed and pleading coupled with a little head tilt. He’s a goner even before she throws in a soft, “Please?”

Huffing, he starts unpacking the items in the bag, flipping her off when she begins to cheer raucously.

Look, in hindsight, Bellamy should have _really_ thought this through. But to be entirely fair, he didn’t think that a single haircut during Clarke’s post-Lexa-breakup-phase would lead to _this_ becoming a frequent occurrence of sorts. Prior to this, she would drown her sorrows in peach schnapps and a Netflix marathon. Now, she just comes over and insists that he help in whatever new scheme she has to change up her look, whether it involves putting colored streaks in her hair or accompanying her to get her nose pierced. He’s not sure if it’s a coping mechanism or just a distraction, at this point, but he prefers it to her getting wasted anyway.

Plus, she always comes to _him_ for this, which he really likes. It’s one of those things about being hopelessly in love with your best friend: you take whatever you can get, even if that means that you have to spend hours inhaling toxic fumes.

“Raven is going to kill me for this,” he reminds her, snapping on a pair of latex gloves while she sways in place, practically vibrating with excitement. “She thinks I indulge you too much.”

“You do,” she agrees, giggling when he sinks his hands into her hair, spreading the dye evenly. “But that’s why I love you.”

His heart gives a little twinge at that, and he has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep from responding. It’s mostly the offhanded, throwaway comments like this that gets to him, really, because it’s a struggle not to think about her saying it in another context. He should probably tell her all this, one day, but the thought of losing her friendship makes him go cold.

He tunes back in when she starts telling him about the argument she had with Abby- predictably, about her latest decision to go to art school instead of majoring in medicine like she had always planned to. It’s nothing new or unexpected of Abby (at least, that’s how he feels) and he tells her as much, twisting the colored strands up into a knot before flopping down onto the sofa next to her.

“Does it look good?” she asks, and he slaps her hand away when she reaches up to poke at it. “You know, it’s really unprofessional of you to do this without a mirror.”

“Go to a salon and get it done for ninety bucks then,” he retorts, yelping when her fingers dart over to tickle at his ribs. “ _Hey_. Cut it out.”

That pulls a laugh out of her, the sound bright. “God, you’re such a baby.”

“You’re the—” he nearly falls off the sofa when he feels hands against his hip, tickling _mercilessly,_ and he lunges over to grab at her wrists before she can do anymore damage. “You’re such a brat.”

“Sure,” she goes, easy, close enough that he can smell the alcohol on her breath, her chest heaving against his as she gives another giggle. He swallows, and it takes almost all of his willpower not to shiver at her proximity, the way her gaze dips down to his mouth and lingers, like she’s curious about him.

“What?” he manages, hating the hoarseness of his voice.

She tilts forward at that, only a hair’s breadth away from him, and he closes his eyes when he feels her slide her hand up to his jaw because _holy shit, Clarke Griffin wants to kiss him—_

The sudden thrill of an alarm makes him jump, with her pulling away at the exact moment. For a second, he can only stare in a dazed sort of silence, before the blue splatters on the towel slung around her shoulders reminds him what it’s there for.

“You should,” he gestures at the still-ringing alarm, rubbing at his face. “Go wash that out.”

“Yup.” She mumbles, strangely red in the face. “I’ll just— I’ll be back.”

“Yeah.”

He buries his face in his hands after she goes, groaning.

The rest of the night passes by without any of the strange tension from before, thankfully, and he’s positive that things are back to normal by the time he drops her off at her apartment. Bellamy’s just going to chalk it up to a terrible, booze-fuelled, _almost_ incident that he’s just… not going to think about. It’s better for his health, really. They can just forget that it ever happened.

Well, until she turns up on his doorstep the next day with blazing red hair instead of blue.

He stares, tightening his grip on the door knob. “What the fuck?”

“I did it myself,” she hastens to point out, wringing her fingers together. “It was, uhm. A real bitch to cover up, but. Yeah.”

“Pray tell, _why?”_

She takes a shuddering breath, drawing closer. “Because I do _this_ every time something big or disastrous happens in my life.” Then, shooting him a weak smile, she adds, “It’s kind of a tradition, at this point.”

“Yeah, but,” he crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. “Wait. So something _else_ happened last night?”

Another step, until they’re practically standing chest-to-chest. He tries not to get distracted by the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips, her arms coming around the back of his neck.

“Uh, just a life-altering revelation.” She breathes, giving a small laugh. “That I’ve been in love with you, all this time, and—”

He twists his fingers into her hair to kiss her then, laughing into her mouth, hands going to her hips and lifting her so she can rain kisses against his cheek, the corner of her jaw.

“I can’t believe you dyed your hair all over again just to make a point,” he gets out, slamming the door shut behind them. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Far be it for me to break tradition,” she goes, prim, breaking out into a dizzying smile as she leans up to kiss him again. “So, I take it the feeling is mutual, right?”

“Depends on if you’re going to bleach your hair again if I tell you yes.”

(She doesn’t, though she does dye it purple after he tells her he loves her. It’s pretty fucking grand.)


	82. date night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'you’ve got a date tonight and you asked for advice on what to wear but I’m so in love with you and damn you look good in the outfit I picked out for you.'

As Bellamy’s best friend, Clarke will willingly admit that she’s not entirely _immune_ to his charms. He’s a decent conversationalist, once he puts his mind to it, and she knows a lot of people who are into the whole brooding, history-nerd vibe, especially when coupled with arms the size of tree trunks. There’s also the part where he’s kind of stupidly attractive, but she mostly tries _not_ to dwell on that. **  
**

Still, it definitely comes as a surprise when he tells her that he has a date tonight.

“Like,” she pauses, scrambling for the words, “as in, _romantically_?”

He shoots her a withering look at that. “You know, you don’t have to sound so surprised.”

“I’m not!” she argues, wincing at the almost defensive lilt to her voice. “It just… caught me off guard, I guess. I thought you said you weren’t looking for anything after Gina.”

“I’m not,” he echoes, rolling his eyes. “Octavia set me up on this date with her colleague. I was planning on cancelling, but,” he shrugs, frowning as he surveys the crumpled shirts scattered on the bed before him, “she texted me a few hours back, and I don’t know. She seems pretty cool.”

She blinks, has to swallow to regain some moisture back in her throat. Somehow, the thought of Bellamy actually going on a _date_ with someone else makes her feel prickly and uncomfortable all over, like being dunked into freezing cold water in the middle of the night. “Oh. Okay. So, who is she?”

“Echo. I have no idea what she does yet, but she works with Octavia.”

“Echo?” she asks, snorting. “As in, Echo and Narcissus? Bell, you shouldn’t go out with someone just because they’re named after one of the characters from your favorite book.”

That pulls a scowl out of him, and he reaches over to swat at her with one of his abandoned shirts while she twists away, shrieking with laughter. “I’m glad you think my love life is a _joke,_ Clarke.”

“It will be if you go out with someone called _Echo_.”

His frown only deepens at that, brows furrowing together quizzically. “Are you— okay, seriously. What’s the problem here?”

“ _Nothing_ ,” she huffs, yanking at a stray thread hanging off his bedspread. “Everything’s fine, okay?” Then, jumping to her feet, she strides over to his closet, “In fact, I’ll even help you with your outfit.”

“What an honor.” He deadpans, pinching at the skin of her hip playfully while she scours through the possible options. “Hey. Try and make me look good, yeah?”

“Why don’t you ask me for something actually achievable, Bell.”

(That earns her another sharp pinch to her elbow, and she retaliates by flicking at his forehead.)

Honestly, there’s a small (spiteful) part of her that’s tempted to dress him in something mildly unflattering, really, but she tamps it down in favor of being a good friend. Even though, yeah, it does sting a little to see him all decked up in one of her favorite ensembles for someone else. She wrestles the hair gel away from him and picks out a cologne before darting out to let him get dressed, trying valiantly to ignore the growing, sickening feeling in her gut.

“So,” she goes, raising her voice slightly to be heard through the closed door, “what’s she like?”

A muffled _thump_ sounds through the wood, followed by a violent curse on his part. “What?”

“Echo,” she calls out, working to keep her voice conversational. It’s a challenge, considering how just the mention of her name makes her mouth fill with something foul and acrid-tasting. _(Jealousy,_ a voice in her head not so helpfully supplies. She shoves it aside.) “Tell me about her.”

“I don’t know,” he says, distracted. “Does it matter?”

Scoffing, she lets her head fall back against the door. “Uh, yes? Look, if this is going to become a thing, I need to know about her so I can brace myself for when I meet her. And like, have a handy list of conversational topics or something.”

“It’s one date, Clarke.”

“I know it’s been awhile since you’ve dated, but those tend to be a _prelude_ to relationships,” she retorts, scrubbing a hand through her hair frustratedly; voice rising despite her best attempts at nonchalance, “So, yeah. She might turn out to be your girlfriend, and I’d think I’ll like to be prepared for when that happens!”

Her outburst is met with silence, long enough for her to start feeling antsy.

Then, suddenly, “Clarke?”

She can’t help it, she jumps at that, banging her shin against the door frame. “What?”

“Are you—” a sharp intake of breath, as if bracing himself to say the words— “are you jealous?”

 _No_ , she wants to snap, the answer instinctive. It feels wrong to lie to him, though, especially about something on this kind of magnitude. Clarke closes her eyes instead, sighs, feeling all the fight and anger from before her bleed out of her. “A little,” she admits, wringing her fingers. “But I have a perfectly good—”

The door jerks open at that, making her squeak as she nearly tumbles into his room.

“Sorry,” Bellamy says hastily, meeting her gaze as he drops into a crouch. “But I just— I need to get that right. _You’re_ jealous about _me_ going out with someone else?”

“Yes!” she snaps, pushing up on her elbows. “Look, I was trying to explain, but—”

He kisses her then, long and sweeping and possessive, making her sigh into his mouth before she tangles her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. It’s every secret fantasy that she’s never let herself voice, every fleeting thought she quashed whenever she thought of him in a romantic context; a _finally_ and a _oh,_ all at once.

His lips are swollen, when he finally pulls away. “God,” Bellamy laughs, pressing his forehead against hers, his hair rustling against her cheek when he shakes at his head ruefully, “you know I hated every single one of your exes, right?”

“The feeling’s mutual,” she breathes out, stroking at the skin of his jaw, dipping down to rest it against his thumping pulse. “I mean, except Gina. I still hated her. But it was really hard to base it on anything other than _she’s dating the guy I’m in love with_.”

“I have slideshows worth of content on why I hated every single one of your exes. Half-an-hour long, each.”

Laughing, she smacks at his chest lightly, biting at the inside of her cheek to taper her smile when he catches at them, pressing a kiss against her fingers. “Fine, you win. And I’m sorry, for springing it on you like that.”

(His gaze softens at that, immeasurably fond in a way that she’s never quite seen before. Well, maybe once or twice, really, but only when it’s been with her. The thought of it fills her with a strange, absolute sort of triumph.)

“You’ll make it up to me,” he tells her, grinning, as he leans down to kiss her again.

(She does. Multiple times, in fact.)


	83. jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'jealous clarke?? something in that vein?? canon verse maybe??'
> 
> A part of my missing scenes from season one fics!

Look, objectively, Clarke knows that Bellamy’s a pretty attractive individual. A collective sigh goes up around camp whenever he wrangles his shirt off (completely _unnecessarily_ ) to do some mundane task or the other. His smile can reduce a normal, functioning being into a swooning mess. Monty claims to be forever changed after the one time he witnessed Bellamy emerging from the shower. **  
**

But, _still_. It’s no excuse for Roma to be hanging all over him.

“Her head is going to spontaneously combust if you keep glaring at her like that,” Raven remarks, drawing up next to her. The smirk on her face is enough for Clarke to direct the force of her glare over to her instead, crossing her arms over her chest. Unperturbed, she continues, “And is it normal for there to be a vein throbbing so close to your forehead? Because I’m getting a little worried.”

“I’m fine,” she huffs, gritting her teeth at the sound of Roma’s high-pitched, lilting _giggle_. Bellamy’s response is lost in the clamor of the crowd, but she recognizes the soft quirk of his lips, the sardonic arch of his brow. Amused. (It’s one of her favorite looks on him, even though she’d never admit it. Not to his face, at least.)

Raven looks thoroughly unconvinced by that. “Yeah, I’m having a little difficulty believing that considering your face is currently a unflattering shade of puce.”

The scathing response on the tip of her tongue dissolves at the sight of Roma’s hand curling over his bicep, _squeezing_ , and she’s moving before she can rethink it; stomping towards them with all the grace and subtlety of someone who’s had a little too much to drink.

He brightens when he spots her; the expression quickly morphing into concern when he catches sight of her face. “Clarke. Is everything okay?”

“Great,” she manages, flat. “I just— I think we should rethink our plans to send a team out past Trikru territory. Do you have a minute to talk? Alone?”

“Yeah, sure.” He goes, completely unfazed; his hand coming down to rest on the small of her back as he steers her towards his tent. Then, looking over his shoulder, “See you around, Roma.”

“See you,” Clarke adds, shooting her a tight, close-lipped smile before striding off. (For some strange, unfathomable reason, the moment fills her with a kind of smug triumph that leaves her grinning throughout the rest of the day.)

And that would have been the end of it, really, if she didn’t keep showing up whenever Bellamy was around.

It starts with breakfast. They’ll be having their oatmeal together- _perfectly content_ \- when Roma would make an appearance; plopping down next to Bellamy with an extra bowl and a huge smile to boot. Then she’s trailing after him during his numerous guard shifts, chattering a mile a minute and hanging onto his sleeve the entire time. One time, Clarke even catches her throwing her arms around him in a _hug_ before separating ways, and it puts her in such a bad mood that the rest of the camp actually goes out of their way to avoid her for the rest of the day.

(It’s _stupid_. It’s _childish_. And yet, she can’t quite manage to tamp down the visceral, almost painful reaction that she has in relation to seeing Bellamy with her. There’s probably a word for how she’s feeling right now, but saying it out loud makes her  feel like she’s opening up a whole other can of worms.)

They’re in his tent, discussing next week’s roster for guard patrol when it all comes to a head.

“We can’t put Sterling and Mel on the same shift,” he tells her, frowning. “They’re good shots, and I’m going to need at least one of them on the hunting party this week.”

“I get that,” Clarke sighs, glancing down at the meticulous chart they have laid out before them, “but I need Harper at the med bay, so you can’t put her on that shift either.”

“Yeah, keep Harper where she is. You need all the help you can get.”

Clucking her tongue contemplatively, she tries, “Or how about Monroe and Sterling for guard detail, and we add Jasper and Mel to the hunting party?”

“Perfect,” he grins, reaching over to pluck at the pencil she stowed in her bun for safekeeping; the graze of his skin against her cheek making her flush. “Guess this means we’re done for the day, right?”

She’s about to answer with an affirmative when a dark head peeks through the flap of his tent, Roma stepping in fluidly. She takes in the scene before her, brow raised, before she goes, “So, you guys are done, right?”

And she’s not sure what possesses her, at this point, but she’s talking before she can stop herself. “ _No_ ,” she snaps, planting her hands on her hips, “we’re not, actually.”

Roma’s brows rise up to her hairline, at that, incredulous. “No?”

“You heard me.” Clarke manages, brisk. Then, turning her face back to the chart, “This is probably going to take awhile, so maybe you can drop by tomorrow.”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ”

“That’s right,” she bites out, clutching at the wood of the table to keep herself grounded to the moment. “It’s not anything urgent, right?”

There’s a moment of hesitation on her part before she goes, sulky, “No.”

“Okay,” Clarke shrugs, working to keep her voice nonchalant. “I guess I’ll see you then.”

That earns her a venomous look on Roma’s part before she stomps out, leaving them in a tense, awkward silence.

“So,” she goes, clearing her throat. “I was thinking we could also reorganize—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy interrupts, his voice unnervingly calm. “What the hell was that?”

She blinks, tilting her chin in the best doe-eyed impression she could muster. “The roster for this week’s guard patrol?”

“Cute.” He deadpans, narrowing his eyes over at her. “You know what I’m talking about. Why did you tell Roma that we weren’t finished?”

“I told you, I was thinking of reorganizing—”

He scoffs at that, drawing closer to her so he can loom over her just the way he likes. “Cut the crap, Clarke. What, did she do something to piss you off? Or does it have to do with the fact that she’s hanging around me all the time?”

Her snort is derisive, and she can’t help the acid in her voice when she asks, “You see her all the time, and you’re not sick of her face yet? That’s rich.”

“Seriously?” he snarls, the muscle of his jaw fluttering in a way that means that he’s seconds away from going off on one of his spiels. “You’re acting like—” He comes to an abrupt halt at that, something akin to comprehension dawning on his face; her pulse stuttering in response to it. “Wait,” he goes, brow furrowing. “Are you— are you _jealous?”_

Her first instinct is to deny it, of course, but she can’t quite bring herself to do it when he’s looking at her like that; confused and open and vulnerable. Somehow, they’ve moved closer to one another in the minutes that have passed and she tries not to think about how his lips are only a hair’s breadth away from hers, how easy it would be to pull him close and kiss him.

“Don’t,” she croaks out, wringing her fingers together. “Just don’t be with her, okay? Or anyone else, for that matter.”

For a second, he can only stare, and she pulls back, the cool rush of air against her skin making her shiver—

He catches at her wrist then, keeping her in place. “ _Clarke_.”

She releases a shuddering breath, eyes stinging. “What?”

His gaze is steady, filled with a kind of intensity that makes it a little hard to breathe. Still, he flushes a little when he tells her, “Same goes for you, okay?”

She can’t quite help the wide, stupid grin that overcomes her for a second, and she catches a glimpse of a smile on Bellamy’s before he ducks his head, releasing her wrist so he could rub at the back of his neck, embarrassed.

(Honestly, though. They’re on the same wave-length for everything else. Clarke really shouldn’t be surprised that it applied to feelings, too. Never explicitly stated but felt, all the same, and falling head-first into it suddenly feels like the easiest thing that could happen between them.)

“So,” he says, averting his gaze back to the mess of sheets on the table. “You were talking about reorganizing?”

 

 _All in good time_ , she thinks, biting back a smile as she slides closer to him, right into his side as his arm comes around her waist; fitting into each other perfectly. “Yup. Let’s talk details.”


	84. of nude models and art classes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'we've all read nude model!bellamy for clarke's art class, but what if *she's* modeling for his beginners class or smth? Extra points if he gets flustered/tries to get her to cover up & she gets offended.'

The irony of the entire situation is that Bellamy doesn’t _mean_ to see Clarke Griffin naked. It happens because she _asks_ him to. **  
**

As it turns out, figure drawing isn’t one of his required modules— but he needs to fulfill his art credits and Clarke assures him that it’s a guaranteed easy A, so he takes it anyway. Her presence is an added bonus, of course, but he doesn’t tell her that. (She’ll just get all smug and insufferable, and his crush on her is painfully transparent as it is.)

So he’s expecting her to be waiting- easel ready and pencils in hand- when he strides into class five minutes late; fumbling with his bag strap as he sweeps a glance over the room. There’s no sign of her, and he’s about half a second away from relenting and finding a seat instead when he sees a familiar flash of blonde—

Gaping, he scrambles to grab at the coffee cup that nearly tumbles out of his grip and onto the floor, wincing at the rush of heat that races up his fingers.

Because Clarke isn’t seated behind an easel— she’s by the front of the room, plopped on a stool and donning a bathrobe that _really_ doesn’t leave much to imagination.

Abandoning his belongings in a hasty pile by the nearest easel, he marches up to her; gaze fixed firmly on her face. “What the _hell_ , Clarke?”

She stares up at him for a second, confusion evident. “Yeah?”

“You said— I thought you were taking this class, not _posing_ for it.” He blusters, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just— I can’t believe you would keep this from me.”

Her chest puffs up in indignation at that, mouth twisting into a trademark scowl that he’s all too familiar with. “Seriously, Bellamy? You didn’t ask. I said I was going to be there, and your first thought was that a second year art major was going to take a _beginner’s_ class for figure drawing?”

He shrugs, huffing. It’s pointless to try and argue with her about this, and he knows a lost cause when he sees one. “It’s— this is going to be weird, isn’t it?”

“Not if you treat me like any other random stranger who’s here to model for thirty other people.” She retorts, brow arched, and he feels the room tilt dangerously beneath him when her hand goes to the knot of her robe. _God,_ he might not actually survive this. “Now will you sit back down and let me do my job?”

The noise that leaves his throat sounds strangled to his own ears, but she must take it as a form of assent because she drops the robe, and he’s suddenly assaulted by the sight of acres and acres of skin and _Clarke_ and—

His cheeks are flaming by the time he gets back to his seat, reaching for a stub of charcoal stiffly. A part of him is almost tempted to slip out of class, but she’ll never let him hear the end of it, and he can be a _professional,_ damn it—

He raises his chin to look at her, and finds himself meeting her gaze instead.

There’s a kind of intensity to it that takes his breath away, his fingers moving instinctively over the page to capture it. It’s easy to lose himself in it, after that, sketching out the same blue eyes that he’s seen a million times before, framed by long, dark lashes. The mole by her upper lip, the slight upwards twitch of her mouth. He gets a little distracted trying to get the cluster of freckles by her thigh just right; bats away a inappropriate thought or two about his hands curving along the arch of her ankles, sliding upwards—

He snaps out of his reverie at the shrill ring of the timer going off; the sound of chairs screeching against linoleum clueing him in to the fact that class has actually ended. He’s scrambling out of his seat before he even realizes what he’s doing, unzipping his hoodie fluidly as he goes.

She startles when he drapes it over her shoulders, but relaxes quickly enough when she realizes it’s him. It morphs into a glare soon enough, though, her fingers working at the zipper before she turns around to face him.

“You know that I’ve done this multiple times before, right? It’s not a big deal.”

“And I’m sure that the other times were pleasant experiences, but you have Cage Wallace in this class,” he points out, teeth grinding together involuntarily. “He’s a creep, okay? You should have seen the way he was looking at you.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly skeptical, tinged with a hint of exasperation. “Look, I get it, okay? You’re protective because you look at me like I’m Octavia, and—”

His mind kind of goes blank at that, and he has to resist the urge to laugh at how far off the mark she is. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”

“Uh, no, but—”

“Clarke,” he interrupts, feeling a slither of heat curl up his neck at the admittance, blooming across his skin, “that’s— the furthest possible way that I think of you, okay?”

There’s a beat when she seems to consider this, blinking over at him while he fidgets under her gaze; the temptation to slink away ratcheting higher and higher with each passing minute—

“Okay,” she says, slow, and there’s a kind of deliberate nonchalance to it that makes him straighten. Then, jerking her chin over at his easel, she continues, “You know, I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t get much sketches done.”

There are at _least_ six full-body sketches of her- more than half the class- but something tells him to play along anyway. “Sure.”

“Well, we can continue this, if you want,” she says, wide-eyed, lips quirking up into the smallest of smirks that makes him flush hot all over. “In private.”

He can’t help his grin at that, embarrassed and fucking pleased, and he thinks he catches the same expression mirrored on her face; a small snatch of laughter drifting from her lips as she ducks her head down, rueful.

“Yeah, okay,” Bellamy manages, reaching over to tug at the strings of his hoodie and ghosting his fingertips over her collarbone, relishing the way she shivers slightly at his touch. _This is going to be fun_. “It’s a date.”


	85. buy me a noise machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'we're neighbours and I can hear you having mental breakdowns through the walls.'

It only occurs to him that he has a new neighbour when he wakes to the sound of a distinctly feminine voice cursing out someone.

And it’s not like Murphy was ever quiet or a remotely _considerate_ neighbour or anything, but Bellamy’s pretty sure that he’s never woken him up at six in the morning with his yelling. Huffing, he shrugs on a shirt, shuffles over to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He has to be up in an hour for work anyway, so there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep.

He does, however, start feeling a little concerned when the muffled swearing grows progressively louder instead of abating. Maybe his new neighbour is _actually_ hurt or something, and the increasingly profane swear words are her way of expressing her distress. It’s plausible, right? The nice, neighbourly thing to do would be to check up on her. Or at the very least, maybe pound on the wall and tell her, in no certain terms, to shut the fuck up.

As tempting as the latter option is, he finds himself edging out of the door anyway, crossing the hallway to knock at her door cautiously.

The door jerks open at the second knock, and he he has to hide his surprise at the figure standing by the doorway. She’s a lot tinier than he expected her to be, dressed in stained scrubs with her hair piled up into a messy bun, stray strands drifting over her collarbone distractingly.

She arches a brow over at him, the tilt of her chin challenging. “Yes?”

“Uh, hi. I live over at 5C? Just next to you?” He gestures over at his ajar apartment door, resisting the urge to make a snide remark about how _thin_ the walls are in the complex. “And you just— I don’t know what’s happening, but you’ve been yelling for the past hour or so? I just wanted to make sure you’re not being murdered, like, five feet away from me.”

There’s a beat as she seems to process this, biting at her lip almost nervously as she sizes him up. Then, she seems to relent, slumping against the door dramatically. “Sorry. I didn’t— I work over at the ER? So I tend to keep weird hours. And I don’t mean to be loud or anything, but this toaster situation has been driving me nuts for the past hour.”

Bellamy can practically feel his brows jerk up to his hairline. “Toaster?”

She worries her lip with her teeth, nodding. “The _fucking_ toaster. I don’t know what’s wrong? I have it all plugged in, and it was working just fine yesterday morning, but—”

“Yeah, the wiring here is permanently on the fritz.” He tells her, shrugging. “You have to angle it, like, ninety degrees to the left? Then duct tape it—” he pauses, taking in her quivering lip, the shadows under her eyes, “— uh. Do you want some help?”

Her laugh is watery, the tension seeping out of her shoulders almost instantaneously. “Yes. _Please_.”

He can’t help but return her smile, just a little, before she’s leading him into her apartment; sidestepping a scattered pile of boxes and bubble wrap. She’s clearly nowhere close to being unpacked, and he suppresses a grunt of pain when he bumps up against a chair leg. “So, you just got here?”

“Two days back,” she replies, jerking her chin over to the dingy toaster resting on her counter. “I needed a place that was close to Ark Medical, and this was the cheapest option there was.”

Snorting, he uncoils the wire once more, turning over to shoot her a wry smile. “Well, I was wondering what a prestigious doctor like yourself was doing in a place like this.”

“Shut up,” she says, without heat whatsoever. “Besides, this place isn’t _that_ much of a dump.”

“It’s a shit-hole,” he assures her, flicking at the switch and shifting the wire ever so slightly to the left. “I’m guessing no one warned you about the showers yet?”

“I’ve seen the rings around my toilet, so I think I have a vague idea.”

“Trust me, you don’t.” He startles a little when the toaster chimes in with a ding; two untoasted slices popping up. “There we go. Hand me the duct tape.”

“God,” she rasps, laughing as he pushes at the lever to lower them into the now-glowing toaster, “you’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, a flush working its way up his neck involuntarily. Having a really cute girl smile and thank him is a _lot_ to take in at six in the morning. “Hey, take this as your official welcome to the building…?”

“Clarke.” She tells him, extending her hand out to shake. “Clarke Griffin.”

“Bellamy Blake,” he says, taking it. Her palm is small and soft in his, and he mostly tries not to think about how much he likes it. “And I really hope this is the last time you’ll be having a kitchen appliance related breakdown at an ungodly hour.”

(Fortunately, it isn’t.)

The next time he sees her is a week after, when he smells something burning wafting in the air.

He puts it down to Cage Wallace (dick) and his notorious tendency to burn his food until he hears a muffled _fuck_ resonate through the walls, accompanied by a loud _thump._

Hitting pause on the documentary blaring from his laptop, he reaches over to knock at the wall, twice. Then, raising his voice slightly, “Clarke?”

There’s a weighty pause- long enough for him to have wondered if he had imagined the whole thing- before she responds, her voice cracking ever-so-slightly, “Bellamy?”

“The one and only,” he manages. “Everything okay over there?”

“Uhm, yeah.” She sniffs, and he recognizes the catch in her voice when she continues, “Just— had a long day, I guess. I burned my food, as you can tell, and then proceeded to drop my frying pan on my foot after, so. Yeah. My day is not looking up.”

 _Oh._ He shrugs, then remembering that she can’t see it, adds, “So I take it that you’re starving, and tired, and close to falling face-first in your sheets without dinner?”

“In that order.”

“Cool,” he says, rapping at the wall with his foot. “Well, I have leftovers if you want, so feel free to come on over if you like egg fried rice.”

Another pause, this time shorter than before. “Really?”

“I’ll even throw in some Jell-O if you have some beers.”

“Got it!” Clarke calls out, and he bites back a grin at how much better she sounds already.

They end up spending the entire time trading spoonfuls of whatever leftovers he could scrounge up from his fridge (she likes the cold pizza best, but he’s more inclined towards burritos) and watching Planet Earth. He finds out that she teaches art classes on the weekends; that her dad died six years back. She makes a sympathetic noise when he tells her about his mom, and the foster situation with Octavia, and missing out on college.

It’s _nice_ , surprisingly. Companionable. It feels almost impossible not to fall into a friendship after that, easy and natural, spent sharing takeout and watching movies and griping about whatever grievances they had that particular week.

(And if he _occasionally_ has less than platonic thoughts about her, well. Bellamy’s just— trying not to dwell on it too much.)

So he’s almost expecting it when she taps at the wall that night; a direct response to his groan before he drops onto the sofa with enough force for it to creak ominously under his weight.

Sighing, he reciprocates, rapping at it once with his knuckles.

A beat, then her voice coming in a little muffled through the walls, “That bad, huh?”

“The worst.” He agrees, slumping further into the pillows. “Think terrible day at work, and a humongous fight with Octavia.”

“I’m coming over.”

He barely manages to grunt out a noise of assent before he hears her at the door; sock-clad feet shuffling across the ground as she eases it shut. “Fuck. You’re a mess.”

“I’m aware,” he grouches, pulling himself up on his elbows. Clarke’s still leaning against the door, bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and what looks like a casserole dish in the other. He stills, brows rising. “Is that…?”

“Macaroni casserole.” She confirms, flopping down on the ground beneath him and offering him a fork. “Dig in.”

He takes it from her, spears a forkful into his mouth. “God. Did I ever tell you that you’re my favorite?”

“Pretty much every time I break this out,” she deadpans, scraping at the edges with her nail.

“Yeah, well, you only break this out on special occasions.” Bellamy counters, flicking his thumb over at the wine bottle balanced precariously on her knee. The last time she made it was when her mother had come over for a visit, and it had ended in a unmitigated disaster. Frowning, he shifts his focus back on her, asks, “Wait. What’s the occasion?”

She keeps her gaze firmly averted from her, staring down at the dish. “What occasion?”

“You only break out the wine and the casserole if you have someone to impress.” He reminds her, resisting the urge to catch at her chin to keep her from looking away. For some strange, inexplicable reason, he feels his pulse pick up in his chest, as if they’re on the brink of something else entirely.

“It’s nothing.”

“ _Clarke._ ”

She takes a deep breath, as if bracing herself. “It was, uh. For you, actually. It was going to be a big thing, you know? Wine, casserole. The works.”

He swallows, half-mesmerized by the slow flutter of her lashes, the swaying motion she makes when he dips his chin a little closer to her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She breathes, inhaling sharply when his lips brushes up against her cheek. “I had it all planned.”

“So,” he can’t help his laugh at that, soft and a little nervous, “what’s supposed to come after?”

And that’s when she kisses him, winding her fingers over his shoulders and pulling him down. He responds with equal enthusiasm, sinking his hands into her hair and laughing against her mouth; fucking delighted, tailing into a half-groan when his knees hit the ground.

“Can’t believe you were trying to wine and dine me into getting with you,” he tells her after they break apart, panting. “Trying to fucking _seduce_ me—”

“You started it,” she grumbles, peppering his neck with kisses and bursting into laughter when he squirms away, ticklish, “with the whole helpful neighbour act, in those stupidly cute pyjama pants. Who wears pyjama pants?”

“Well, you like it.”

Clarke sighs, burrowing closer into his arms, as if she’s meant to be there all along. “It’s because I like you, you nerd.”

(She never quite gets around to leaving, after.)


	86. prank war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: 'I just moved in next door and I’m like 99% sure you’re insane AU involving pranks.'

Funnily enough, Clarke only gets acquainted with her neighbour _after_ he dumps a bucket of ice-cold water on her. **  
**

Granted, she would probably have found it a little funny if it hadn’t occurred at the end of a disastrous day, or maybe if she had been the intended target in the first place (look, it’s not unlike her to appreciate a prank) except she’s pretty sure she hears him yell, “ _Suck it, Murphy!_ ” through the walls the second the bucket clatters noisily to the ground, leaving her soaking wet and shivering on her doorstep.

She’s not sure what’s more insulting, really: the fact that her neighbour at apartment 5B remains blissfully oblivious to the fact that she’s moved in for a _week_ now, or that she fell for a prank that involves balancing a _bucket_ on top of a door.

Still, it’s hard to summon the urge to confront him when she’s cold and wet and possibly sleep-deprived, so she puts it off in favor of a hot shower instead. He’s her neighbor, after all. It’s not like he’s going anywhere. She can talk to him about boundaries and stupidly simplistic pranks anytime.

Except he’s not home the next time she rings at his doorbell, and apparently she’s not over the whole situation like she thought she was, because the next thing she knows she’s smearing Vaseline all over one B.Blake’s (according to the nameplate by his mailbox) doorknob.

It’s only _fair_ , okay?

She’s making a sandwich when she hears his key catch in the lock, a low string of curses following shortly after. It takes every bit of her willpower to keep from bursting into laughter at that, her shoulders shaking with the effort as his voice rises in pitch.

He must eventually get the door open though, because he pounds once against their connecting wall in what must be triumph, and faintly, she registers a smug, “Nice try, _asshole_.”

“Yeah, well,” Clarke mutters, glaring at the single, thin wall separating them, “you too. Dick.”

(That, as far as she’s concerned, is the beginning of the end.)

He douses her doormat with the honey the very next day, effectively _ruining_ a pair of her favorite pumps. She retaliates by shoving every random catalogue and flyer from her mailbox into his instead, making sure to arrange it in the most haphazard and inconvenient way possible. He gets his revenge in the form of shaving cream smeared all over doorknob while she opts for planting gummy cockroaches all over his doorstep instead.

It’s passive-aggressive and childish and quite possibly, the most fun she’s had in _years._

It’s mostly why she decides to keep up the ruse; forcing herself to stay in her seat instead of peeking at the peephole whenever she hears him at the door, or skittering out only when the hallways have gone quiet. It’s easier than it seems, considering her erratic hours at the ER. Besides, there’s no way that she’s ruining a perfectly pleasant feud, especially now that they’ve gained momentum.

She’s checking her mail and contemplating how mad B.Blake might be if she duct tapes an airhorn strategically to the side of his mailbox when a guy comes bounding up next to her, shooting her a brief, distracted smile before fitting his keys into the slot.

The slot to apartment 5B’s mailbox.

Gaping, she looks away, a flush working its way up her cheeks. It has to be some sort of karmic injustice that he’s here, going through his mail oh so casually when she’s standing right next to him. At this point, she has several options. One, sneak away. Two—

His gaze snaps over to her then, the corners of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Hey. You’re new, right?”

“Uh,” she manages, and yeah, it definitely is some sort of karmic injustice that B.Blake is stupidly _hot;_ all messy hair and dark eyes and arms straining against his shirt. Ducking her head instinctively, she continues, “Not really? I’ve been here for about a month.”

“Yeah, I didn’t know there about the vacancies but apparently a lot of people have been moving out lately.” He says, wry, fingers sorting idly through the stack of envelopes in his hand. “I’m not exactly sure why, considering you have to pay an exorbitant amount of rent and deal with some pretty fucking difficult residents in this building, but I guess it’s good location-wise.”

Wetting her lips, she wipes her slick palms on the fabric of her jeans. “And by difficult, you mean…?”

“Oh,” he ducks his head on a laugh at that, shaking his head ruefully. “Okay, fine, to be more precise it’s just been one so far. John Murphy? Over at 5A? The guy has had it out for me ever since I told him to clear his takeout boxes from the hallway because it’s a fire hazard. Bastard’s been pranking me ever since.”

“Yikes.”

“It’s not that bad,” he shrugs, and this time she’s rewarded with a flash of teeth. “I have to give him some credit. He’s pretty inventive.”

“Wow,” she says, tilting her chin in mock consideration. “So, inventive like you with the whole bucket above the door trick?”

That pulls a frown out of him, brows furrowing together quizzically. “You heard about that?”

 _Well, the jig’s up_. Taking a deep breath to brace herself, she raps her knuckles against her still-open mailbox, tapping a nail against the 5A painted by the side. “I was there, actually.”

There’s a beat as he seems to process this. Then, haltingly, “Wait— don’t tell me—”

“That Murphy moved out a few weeks back, and that your stunt actually doused me instead? Yeah,” she says, biting back a smile, “that’s exactly what happened, actually.”

He groans, falling back against the wall. “Fuck.” Then, narrowing his eyes over at her, “Why didn’t you say something? If I knew, well. Shit. Fuck.”

“I might have been enjoying myself a little too much by then.” She admits, the rest of her words trailing off into a laugh at his skeptical expression, “Oh, come on. You’re telling me that you didn’t have fun soaking my doormat in honey?”

“Only because you put _Vaseline_ on my door.”

“Because you dropped a bucket of water on my head,” Clarke reminds him, grinning. He returns it; his smile wide and sincere, and the sight of it sends a rush of warmth all the way down to her toes. “You started it.”

“Unintentionally,” he points out, mock-solemn. “And honestly, I would have enjoyed myself a lot more if I knew that I was pranking a cute girl instead of _Murphy._ ”

“Wow, that was very smooth.”

“I try,” he tells her, extending his hand out. “I’m Bellamy. Bellamy Blake.”

“Clarke Griffin,” she says, taking it. His palm is warm and dry in hers, nice, and yeah, Clarke thinks she has a pretty good feeling about him, “and, uh. Now is probably the time to tell you that I put gum in the keyhole of your apartment door.”

(He gets her back later by taking out the screws from her bedroom door, so it makes them even, really.)


	87. more than you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: ‘This is the first time I’m living on my own and my parents decided to spontaneously drop by in a few hours to see how I’m doing pls let me borrow some cleaning supplies and food so that my parents will believe I’m a functioning, responsible adult who totally cleans and doesn’t just have condiments and eggs in my fridge AU’ + with a small side of fake dating, as requested by Allie.

The thing about living in the city, Clarke has learned, is that everything is just so damn  _ convenient. _

It’s an ideal situation, mostly, because there’s minimal effort required when it comes to fulfilling her basic needs. There’s a mini-mart with pre-packed salads and sandwiches on every corner of her street, for one, and a cleaning service that comes in once a month to keep her apartment habitable. The laundry room in her complex comes equipped with a stash of detergent, and there’s a dishwater in the communal kitchen that pretty much ensures she doesn’t have to scrub at a plate in the foreseeable future. All things considered, it’s a good system.

Or it  _ would  _ be if her parents weren’t coming in for a surprise visit in a matter of  _ hours _ .

“I need your help,” she announces, the second her neighbour gets the door open. It’s eight in the morning, but she’s  _ desperate,  _ and he’s, possibly, the least creepy of her neighbours, as far as she can tell. “It involves my borrowing of your groceries.”

He squints over at her, hair mussed and a pair of boxers hanging loosely on his hips. Objectively, it’s a  _ really  _ good look for him, and it’s a testament to her self-control that she doesn’t get entirely too distracted by his cat-printed boxers  _ or  _ his abs. “ _ What _ ?”

“You heard me,” she huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “Your  _ groceries.  _ I have to borrow them.”

That pulls a snort out of him; the sound amused, more than anything. “Enlighten me, princess: how exactly does one  _ borrow  _ groceries?”

“By loaning some bare essentials to me so I can stuff my fridge and counters,” she retorts, throwing up her hands frustratedly. “Look — I’ll return it all once my parents leave, okay? I’m just asking you to be a good Samaritan for a few hours so I can keep up the pretense that I actually  _ have _ a balanced diet that doesn’t involve copious amounts of takeout and microwavables.”

The look he shoots her is distinctly exasperated. “I don’t even  _ know  _ you.”

“Sure you do,” she chirps, assuming the most pleading expression she can muster under the circumstances, “I live right across the hall, see? Over at 5C? I’m Clarke Griffin.”

A beat as he seems to size her up, his fingers still curled around the door knob. There’s a terrible, fleeting second where she thinks he might actually slam the door in her face before he finally relents, taking a pointed step back into his apartment. “Bellamy Blake,” he says, reluctantly, sweeping an arm inwards. “Do I  _ want  _ to know the extent of your barren apartment?”

“Well, considering how the only cutlery I own is plastic, no. I assume not.” She beams, barreling past him to grab at the containers lining his shelves. There’s three different kinds of cereal in the cabinets alone, and a _water filter_ set up by the sink. (Clearly, he has very different priorities in life.)

She manages to load most of his groceries into her fridge by the time he emerges at her doorway, this time  _ with  _ a shirt on (unfortunately), and there’s a minute of stunned silence as he appears to take her apartment in, brow furrowed.

“Tell me,” he says, strained, “that you own a vacuum cleaner, at least.”

“Hey, I’m subscribed to a cleaning  _ service _ ,” she points out, frowning. “They provide it.”

There’s a moment where she thinks Bellamy Blake might actually  _ implode _ before he seems to pull himself together, pinching at the bridge of his nose grumpily. “Yeah— just, okay. You need help, clearly.”

She can’t quite help the small, hopeful feeling that rears its head at the sound of that. “So, you’re volunteering?”

He gives a deep, heavy sigh, rucking his fingers through his hair. “C’mon, 5C. Let’s get to work.”

They make a good team, as it turns out. She gets her shower unclogged while he gets her toilet flush fixed, and he somehow manages to turn lunch into a teachable moment when he educates her on the merits of a frying pan. She informs him of the benefits of having takeout once in awhile, and they  _ collectively _ manage to clean out the space underneath her couch despite her lack of a mop.

(It’s  _ nice,  _ talking to him, she can’t help but note. Easy, too. It doesn’t hurt that he’s incredibly good-looking as well, all bronzed skin and hard lines that she can’t help but stare at.)

“So,” he says, conversational, as he rifles through his toolbox, “what’s the deal this visit?”

It takes a second for the words to sink in, probably because she’s a little too concerned with the flex of his biceps as he works at her sink. “It’s my mom, most likely,” Clarke shrugs, making a face. “Knowing her, she’s probably feeling a little guilty about the divorce all over again, so she’s coming over to check up on me.”

“Ah,” he smirks, shaking his head, “so the classic, I’m-showing-that-I- _ care,  _ card?”

“You know it,” she says absently, reaching over to straighten the row of potted plants (Bellamy’s doing) by her window. “It’ll either be that, or her millionth attempt at setting me up with one of her society pals that all turn out to be rich, entitled  _ assholes _ .”

“Like you?” he asks, innocent.

She shoots him a cutting glare at that, making him burst into laughter. “You don’t even own a  _ vacuum cleaner _ ,” he points out, wry, “I call it like I see it. But fine, maybe not so much on the entitled front.”

“Good,” she says, prim, biting at the inside of her cheek to taper a smile. “Because my rich, not-so-entitled self was planning on thanking you by—”

“Clarke?”

She jerks instinctively at the sound of her name, blinking. “Mom? How did you get in here?”

“You left the door open,” she frowns, her gaze roving from the cluttered countertop to the propped open toolbox to Bellamy, half-perched under the sink. Then, almost reprovingly, “Sweetie, I thought I told you that if you ever needed a plumber, just give me a call. We have a guy for that.”

“ _ Mom, _ ” she hisses, cheeks flaming. Bellamy’s face remains carefully blank at that, but she doesn’t miss the slight tightening of his jaw, the rigidity of his shoulders as he ducks out from the small space. “You’re—”

_ Being rude,  _ she tries to say, the words scrambling in her throat—

“— being rude to my  _ boyfriend, _ ” she blurts, sudden. He’s as surprised as she is, if the rise of his brows is any indication; his expression smoothing out quickly after she sends him a pleading look, mouthing for him to  _ play along. _

Her mother seems to stiffen at that, gaze going appraising as it rakes over Bellamy’s form once more. “Your  _ boyfriend _ ?”

“That’s right,” she says tightly, leaning into his side as he draws up next to her. He’s all firm muscle and heat, and it takes almost everything in her willpower to keep from sinking into him entirely. “I didn’t say anything because it was relatively new, but yeah. This is Bellamy.”

He grins, baring his teeth. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Griffin.”

“It’s  _ Dr.Griffin, _ ” she says, with the purse of her lips, and if anything, Bellamy’s smile seems to grow  _ bigger  _ at that, mirroring hers. (Yeah, this  _ might  _ just turn out to be fun, after all.)

“C’mon, mom.” She manages, working to keep her voice saccharine sweet as she slides her hand lower, squeezing at Bellamy’s hip. “Let me show you around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a bit of a writing rut these days, so feel free to send me prompts on my tumblr to get my creative juices flowing again, etc etc!


	88. puppy love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically, this isn’t 100% fall-themed, but I’m a sucker for puppies and the friends-to-lovers trope so I’m just going to kick off my Halloween bash with this, tbh! Let’s just pretend this fic takes place in fall and hence is entirely On-Theme. 
> 
> Also, anyway, the prompt was: 'a friends-to-lovers bellarke au where they decide to volunteer at a dog rescue or pound or something and the sight of bellamy playing with the dogs and puppies makes clarke's crush on him even worse? bonus would be if they end up adopting a dog together or something (also i would adore mutual pining !!!!) or anything along those lines'

Ironically enough, she’s the one who comes up with the idea of volunteering— which means that there’s no one to blame for this entire situation but herself, really. **  
**

“Run this by me again,” Bellamy asks, dry, “but how is this _not_ a entirely self-serving move on our part where we get to play with numerous dogs on a regular basis?”

Arching a pointed brow over at him, she tilts back her screen, bringing up the shelter’s website. “ _Because_ , that’s not what fostering is,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. “We’re providing dogs with a chance at finding their permanent homes by giving them a place to stay in the meantime, see? It’ll reduce a load on the shelter’s resources too, so.”

The problem with living with her best friend for the better part of the year is that he knows her too well, really, so the only reaction she gets from that is a unimpressed sniff. “So what you’re saying is that we’ll get to play with several different dogs on a regular basis?”

Glaring, she manages a scowl, which only serves to make his smirk grow wider if anything. “Fine,” she bites out, slamming a pen down onto the sheaf of application papers before them, “maybe. Now will you please fill these out?”

“Only because you asked so nicely,” he grins, tickling at her wrist before reaching over to pluck the pen out of her grip triumphantly.

Their first dog arrives, a week after—  a husky mix called Peanut, of all things— which as far as Clarke knows, is the beginning of the end.

Because as it turns out, the sight of Bellamy taking care of a tiny, helpless puppy is a whole new level of _distracting._

It’s not as if she’s never noticed that her best friend is stupidly handsome, but it’s different when he’s holding a wriggling, squirming mass of fur in his arms, cooing and kissing at her nose constantly. Or when he comes home, all sweaty and dishevelled with his shirt sticking obscenely to his skin and leash in hand. One time, they’re watching TV when Peanut starts getting a little restless, so he literally scoops her up with one hand and starts  _lifting_ her, much to her delight, until she tires out and falls asleep on him, which is just… a lot for Clarke to handle, honestly.

The fact that she has feelings for him isn’t exactly a novel discovery on her part, but seeing him being so good with Peanut is distinctly  _not_ helping things. Prior to this, her plan had mostly involved suffering in silence over what surely must be unrequited feelings for him, but raising a dog together had sort of thrown a wrench into those plans. It’s almost entirely impossible to ignore how good they work as a team— or as a couple, and it’s getting harder with each passing day not to convince him of it, too.

In the end, it all comes to a head during one of their regular walks to the park.

They’re sitting at the bench, trying to teach Peanut to keep from jerking on her leash (with Bellamy providing unhelpful commentary like, “Maybe she would stop doing it if you stopped steering her into trees so much.”) when a woman comes up to them, fawning over Peanut as she runs giddy, excited circles around them.

“You can pet her, if you want.” Clarke offers, patting at her rump until Peanut flops down onto the ground, panting. “She’s friendly.”

“And a real cutie,” the woman says, grinning. “How long have you guys had her?”

“A few months?” Bellamy shrugs, leaning over to secure Peanut’s harness. “I’d say close to a year.”

“Ten months,” she reminds him, kicking lightly at his shin. “We got her in January, remember? You started baby-proofing the apartment then.”

“Only because you leave the blender out  _constantly_. Have you seen how sharp those blades are?”

“You’re telling me that Peanut is somehow going to be able to  _scale_  our dining room table and stick her face into the blender?”

That pulls a impatient noise out of him, which she generally takes to mean as a sign of victory. “Sorry,” he says pleasantly, directing his attention back to the woman. “It’s just one of those things we can never agree on.”

“I know the feeling,” she says, shooting him a sympathetic look. “I get like this with my husband, too.” Then, with one last pat to Peanut’s head, “You have a beautiful family.”

She can practically  _feel_ her cheeks flooding with color at that; Bellamy sputtering in response as the woman strides away, Peanut tugging at her leash until Clarke gets her to settle back down.

“It’s not a big deal,” she says quickly, at the ensuing silence. “I mean— it’s just— it’s _stupid_  how society doesn’t think that guys and girls can’t just be like, friends, and platonically raising a dog together without automatically assuming they are a couple, but—”

“Would it be so bad?” he interrupts, worrying at his lip. “I mean, if we were. A couple, I mean.”

For a minute, all she can do is stare, her mouth dropping open instinctively to gape over at him. “What?”

“Never mind,” he says hastily, looking away. “I just meant, like— not a  _couple_ couple, but uh, more like a—”

She kisses him then, sliding her hands into his hair like how she’s wanted to for years now, nipping at his bottom lip until he catches on and kisses her back, deep and warm and everything she imagined kissing Bellamy Blake would be like.

“How long have you wanted to ask me that?” she asks when they pull apart, breathless and mouths red and swollen. (It’s a good look on him.)

“Uh,” he laughs, dropping his head so it’s resting against the side of his neck, nuzzling at the skin there, “for the longest time? But if we’re talking specifics, I would say about a year ago. Way before we got Peanut, that’s for sure.”

“And you didn’t think about just  _asking_  me?”

“I was working up to it,” he grumbles, nosing at her jaw until she gets the message and presses a quick kiss against his lips, another on his eyelid. “I just— these things are delicate, Clarke Griffin.”

“Sure,” she agrees, biting back a smile. “You  _nerd._ ”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, running his fingers absently over her knuckles before tangling his hand with hers. “So that’s a yes, right?”

“Yeah,” she tells him, dropping a kiss against his cheek; Peanut tugging impatiently on her leash until Bellamy relents and picks her up, slathering them with kisses on her own. “That’s definitely a yes.” 


	89. fall leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I got caught staring at my adult neighbour raking up a bunch of leaves in their backyard and jumping into them and now have to awkwardly pretend i saw nothing’ au

Clarke’s new neighbor is… a bit of a mystery, to say to least. **  
**

He’s moved in for close to a month now, and other than the _Blake_  carved on his mailbox, she knows next to nothing about him. But from what she can tell, he seems to be kind of a grump— blasting NPR at all hours of the night, only emerging from his house from time to time to retrieve packages and clear his garbage. Plus, there’s an actual  _sign_  on his lawn that says ‘no solicitors’, like he’s some sort of modern day scrooge or something, which she’s pretty sure is an indicator of his massive  _assholishness_.

So yeah, she’ll admit that it’s a little unexpected to catch him jumping into a pile of leaves one fine Tuesday.

It happens out of nowhere, really— one minute he’s raking leaves, his dog pacing the length of the fence— and the next minute he’s just  _buried_  in them, reddish gold leaves fluttering everywhere and drifting into her yard.

If she didn’t know any better, she would have assumed that he slipped or something, but there’s this huge,  _wide_ grin on his face; striking in a way that makes her lift her head from her sketchpad. It changes his face entirely, makes him look boyish, almost, and objectively, she’ll admit that her new neighbor is unreasonably attractive.

Still, she doesn’t even realize that she’s staring until he’s looking right at her— brow cocked and a frown twisting at his lips.

It’s an effort to keep a straight face, considering how his ears are flushed red, hands planted on his hips as if to convey his indignation at her having witnessed his moment of fun. Relenting, she waves, shooting him a cheery smile, “You okay there?”

He blinks over at her, the corners of his lips lifting slightly. “Yeah,” he says finally, clearing at his throat. “I, uh. Slipped. Cerberus got in the way.”

“Right,” she says, glancing pointedly over at Cerberus, apparently more concerned with scratching at itself and standing  _nowhere_  close by to him. “Sure,” she continues, mild. “That makes sense.”

She probably isn’t as smooth as she thinks, because he’s scowling over at her now, brows furrowed and arms crossed— and it’ll be intimidating if he wasn’t still blushing. “He was right here five seconds ago.”

“Uh huh.”

“You sound like you don’t believe me.”

“Generally,” she quips, pulling a face, “people aren’t laughing when they slip into a pile of leaves. Maybe it’s just a you thing.”

“Just— shut up,” he huffs. “I’m— fine. You caught me, okay? I jumped into that pile of leaves.”

It’s probably not the best idea to keep teasing him about it considering how he’s about three different shades of red, but he’s  _cute_ , and Clarke wants to keep talking to him, if she’s being entirely honest. “Dare I ask why?” she teases, cocking her chin over at him.

“For fun,” he shrugs, kicking at a leaf. Then, smirking over at her, “Which is something you look like you could use more of, Princess.”

“Seriously?”

He gestures over to her halo of braids, his smirk only growing  _bigger._  “If the shoe fits.”

“I’m plenty fun,” she counters, setting her sketchbook down onto her lap. “I’m— a connoisseur of fun, okay? You should have seen me in college. I was a total party girl.”

“Okay,” he says, with the jerk of his chin. Smug, like the cat that got the cream. “Prove it.”

She follows the line of his gaze, her stomach bottoming out at the sight of her neatly raked pile of leaves. “You’re kidding, right?” she yelps, getting to her feet. “I spent all morning working on those.”

He widens his eyes at her, the epitome of innocence. “I thought you said you were the _connoisseur_ of fun.”

“ _I’m_ ,” she jerks to a halt, swearing under her breath. If Clarke was a mature, well-adjusted adult, she could simply just walk away from this, leaves and self unscathed— but she knows herself better than that, really. Shooting him a dirty look, she strides over to her pile of leaves, rolling out her muscles carefully.

“Any day now, Princess.”

“I hate you,” she mutters, breaking into a run before jumping, landing against the thick of it and sending leaves scattering  _everywhere_ — her breath rushing out of her in one go and leaving her dizzy and lightheaded and  _exhilarated_  all at once.

For a second she can only stare up at the sky, dazed, and then she’s  _laughing,_ clapping her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound before he starts up, too, bright and clear and filling her up with warmth.

“See?” he says, once she has regained her bearings enough to sit up. “Told you it was fun.”

“I concur,” she manages, picking a leaf out of her hair. He’s still looking at her, and it’s doing funny things to her insides, so she averts her gaze, biting at her lip. “I’m, uh. Clarke,” she says, lacing her fingers together to keep from doing something stupid, like offering him her hand. “Clarke Griffin.”

This time, the smile he gives her is blinding. “Bellamy Blake,” he tells her, and then, grinning, he inclines his head towards the mess of leaves in her yard, a few stragglers still floating back down onto the ground. “Need some help with that?”


	90. most spooktacular classroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we're both teachers at an elementary school and we've been rivals for years on who has the most elaborate halloween costume/best decorated classroom and we low-key are super into each other'

Ordinarily, the town’s fall festival sounds like something Clarke can really get behind. It’s a carnival with all the frills— haunted houses, cake walks, and various hay-bale mazes that are actually pretty challenging. Wells serves apple cider, Lincoln does face-painting, and Raven gets the tents up so the festivities can go on way into the night. **  
**

Except the fall festival also means that they’re doing the most spooktacular classroom contest at school, which basically is a _huge_  pain in the ass, because, well.

It involves going up against Bellamy Blake.

“Griffin.”

“Blake,” she replies, saccharine sweet. It’s not exactly fooling anyone though, considering the way they’re circling each other, but it annoys him if anything. “Come to wave your chances of winning goodbye?”

He folds his arms across his chest, muscle by his jaw working furiously. It’s one of his tells, as noted two years ago— when her paper mache pumpkins had beat out his origami scarecrows. “The only thing I’ll be waving is _my_ victory flag when we win,” he declares, composing himself. “But then again, you should be pretty used to the feeling of crushing defeat by now.”

“I lost once. Might I remind you that 3A is still the reigning champion of spookiest classroom ever?”

“Because you _cheated_ ,” he says hotly, practically _glowering_  over at her. “Those wreaths were store-bought and you know it.”

“Prove it,” she shrugs, pretending to inspect at her nails. That pulls a scowl out of him, furious and unrestrained, and she has to bite at the inside of her cheek to keep from bursting into laughter.

(It’s just… he makes it so easy, really. Plus, there’s also the tiny little matter of him being kind of cute when he’s mad.)

“Let me guess,” she continues, working to keep her face impassive as she spins on her heel, marching towards his classroom. “You went with Dead Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“There’s no such thing and you know it,” Bellamy huffs, stomping after her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him against her back, his fingers brushing against her hip at each step. “It’s  _Treasure Island,_  Clarke.”

“Please,” she sniffs, a squeak escaping when he rounds ahead of her, sending her half-lurching into him before he catches at her arms, holding her upright. Like this, she can make out the freckles in his irises; the dark fan of his lashes. It’s…  _distracting_  to say the least. Swallowing, she steadies herself, holding her chin up high. “Pirates are passe.”

He leans closer, then, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips. “Passe?” he says, his breath tickling at her ear and making her shiver.  _Damn him._  “Did you seriously just call my decorations passe, Princess?”

“If the shoe fits,” she says primly, wriggling her arm out of his hold so she can flick at his forehead, making him wince. “Honestly, I know you’re all up for historical accuracy, but there’s nothing spooky about a bunch of dead pirates with scurvy.”

“Oh like yours is any better,” he snorts, rolling his eyes. “What’s _your_ theme? Pottery barn?”

“It’s  _Frightening Fall Bonanza_ , and it’s going to blow yours right out of the water,” she retorts, the rest of her response dying in her throat when he reaches over to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear— his fingers lingering against the line of her jaw and curling at her chin, her eyes closing reflexively in response. Exhaling shakily, she grits at her teeth, bites out, “I know what you’re trying to do, Bellamy Blake.”

He gives a soft laugh at that, the sound and proximity of it sending a lightning bolt of heat arching through her. “You do?”

It’s an effort to muster up a glare when he’s _looking_  at her like that; all warm fondness and easy familiarity and intense gaze. God, she’s a weak woman. “Seduction isn’t going to work this time, Blake,” she tells him, stern, biting at the inside of her cheek to hide her smile.

“Worked for you back in the day,” he pouts, the rest of it delving into a yelp instead when she smacks at his shoulder. “Okay, jeez. Easy, Princess. Who’s going to carve up all those jack o’ lanterns for you if your boyfriend is out of commission?”

“I could always hire someone. A _professional_ , for one.”

“You wound me,” he sighs, pitching forward to press a soft kiss against her nose. It’s enough for her to lose her resolve, a giggle escaping when he kisses at the edge of her brow, too; the jut of her cheek. “Jokes aside: everything okay on your end, Princess?”

“Everything’s great,” she beams, looping her arms around his neck. “And you better damn well like Pottery Barn, because I got the matching cutlery set for our apartment.”

He makes a agreeable noise at that, dropping another quick kiss against her forehead. “I can live with that.”

“You’re going to have to.”

“Fine,” he tells her, grinning— that heart-melting, blinding smile that made her fall for him in the first place, all those years back when they had first started teaching; when he had been nothing but the brash, bad-tempered social studies teacher and she was the fresh grad teaching art— the rest of his body moving and pinning her hips back against the wall, hands going to her hair and making her tense in anticipation. “Fair fight, alright? May the best man win.”

“May the best man win,” she echoes, already breathless, eyes fluttering shut as she leans forward instinctively—

Only for her to meet nothing but cool air, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

Blinking, she looks up, registering the figure high-tailing it in the distance—

“Oh my god, I  _hate_  you!” she yells, breaking into a brisk jog to catch up, his laughter echoing down the corridors and making her swear ungainly under her breath.

(Still, he slows enough so that she can grab at his hand, linking their fingers together. Victories are always a little sweeter when they’re together, anyway.)


	91. caesar socks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ' clarke wearing a big pair of bellamy's wool socks + trying to find both the biggest and smallest pumpkins at a pumpkin patch + friends-to-lovers trope'

The thing is, loaning Clarke his scarf didn’t  _seem_  like a big deal at the time. They’re roommates, after all, and she’s pretty much his favorite person in the world. Honestly, it’d probably be weirder if he didn’t, really, so Bellamy doesn’t think much of it when she doesn’t return it right away.

But then it just keeps  _happening._

He spots her wearing his gloves the next time they’re out, the fabric loose around her wrists and bunching comically around her fingers. (A part of him is tempted to remind her that she has a perfectly adequate, _fitting_  pair of gloves herself, but he refrains, in the end.) Then his sweatshirt goes missing, miraculously resurfacing during movie night when he catches her shrugging it on over her shirt. His beanies are the next to go, followed by his hoodies.

Still, he draws the line at his  _socks._

“Are those mine?” he demands, expertly weaving past the crowd gathering over by one of the pumpkin patches. Pumpkin picking is one of her favorite fall traditions, though he’s not sure how she manages to rope him along  _every_  time. (Well, okay, maybe he does have an inkling how, but denial seems to be the best approach when it comes to his feelings for Clarke.) “Jeez, Princess. I’ve been looking for this pair for forever now.”

She blinks up at him, gaze cutting down to the hint of blue peeking out from her boots. “Oh, right,” she says, frowning. “I didn’t— I think I may have just grabbed them from the laundry basket? I must have thought they were mine.”

He arches a pointed brow over at her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Are you telling me that you owe a pair of socks with a  _Caesar_  reference on it?”

“Hey, I resent that accusation,” she scowls, edging past him to inspect at one of the gourds, tapping at it lightly with her foot. “I know my Roman Generals.”

“Sure you do,” he snorts, trailing after her. “That’s why you fell asleep the last time I put on  _Rome_.”

The noise she makes is distinctly indignant. “Hey, I was  _exhausted_  that night. I had a graveyard shift the day before, remember?”

“That’s what you always say.”

“Just— leave me alone to pick my pumpkin already,” Clarke mutters, picking up the pace so he has to lengthen his stride ever so slightly to catch up. “We have to get a good one before they’re all snatched up.”

“Yeah, sure. Once you’ve returned my socks, that is.” He tells her, ducking out of the way when she veers suddenly to the left, fixing her sights on a huge, slightly misshapen pumpkin over by a deserted patch. It’s not so much of a run than it is a very brisk walk, but that’s when he sees it— the familiar insignia printed across her sweater, the slight rip in the right sleeve.

“That’s— hey,” he huffs, drawing up next to her. “Seriously?  _And_  my sweater too?”

“I didn’t know it was yours!”

“It says Alexandria Historical Society  _right_  there,” he says, exasperated, poking at the space between her shoulderblades. He’s not sure if he’s imagining the little shiver that she gives in response, but it makes him feel strangely triumphant, somehow. “God, Clarke,” he sighs, rucking his fingers through his hair. “Is it because you keep getting paint on your clothes? I keep telling you, get a alcohol-based cleaner.”

She looks away at that, teeth snagging at her bottom lip almost nervously. “I know how to do my laundry, Bellamy.”

“Well, that’s a little hard to believe, considering—”

“It just— they smell like you, okay?” she explodes, sputtering. “They’re always worn, and comfortable, and they’re all just,” she pauses, biting at the inside of her cheek, “ _comforting_. It reminds me of home.”

For a second, all he can do is stare. It’s not that far out of left field, considering they live together and all— but it’s just something about the implication behind it, really. The thought that he’s home, to her, just like she always has been for him. (Unwittingly, he can feel something akin to hope swelling against his ribs, making his knees go a little weak.)

She darts a glance up at him, face pink from the cold and splotchy patches of color blooming up her neck. For some reason, she’s decided to forego a scarf this morning, which is so _typical_  of Clarke that he can’t even bring himself to be surprised, really.

Carefully, he unwinds his own, dropping it over her shoulders instead. She makes a small noise of surprise, swallowing audibly when he adjusts at it, making sure it drapes over her just right.

“You know what?” he says finally, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Keep it. I don’t mind.”

The clear disbelief on her face would be funny if he didn’t feel like his heart might  _actually_  combust any minute now. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he manages, shrugging. Then, mostly because he can’t resist, “It looks better on you anyhow.”

This time, the flush that spreads over her cheeks is anything  _but_  from the cold. Grinning, he stretches a hand out, repressing a shiver at the wind slicing against his bare skin. (Worth it, though.) “C’mon, Princess,” he manages, taking her hand. “Let’s go get ourselves a pumpkin.”


	92. corn maze

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'how about getting lost in a corn maze?'

Look, as the deputy director of the Parks and Recreation department, Bellamy is not  _opposed_  to getting his hands dirty from time to time, okay? He’s the one-man task force behind the Arkadia River cleanup initiative, for one, and he’s also pretty much the only person who makes it a point to spray ammonia all over the various parks trash cans regularly to keep the raccoons out. It’s troublesome, sure, but it’s hard to mind when it’s all for the good of the community. **  
**

Still, he’ll admit: it’s difficult to think of the greater good of it all when he’s been stuck in this corn maze for the past _two_  hours.

“The next time Kane insists we test-run every single one of the Harvest Festival’s attractions,” he pants, swatting at the stray stalk of corn threatening to snap right into half, “I’m going to stick him in this corn maze and let the Karpoi have him.”

Clarke, thankfully, seems to be handling this with a lot more grace than he is. “Karpoi?” she asks, confusion knitting at her brow. “As in, the grain spirits that look like fat babies?”

“Yeah,” he manages, pausing to take a swig from his bottle. “They’re known to be pretty vicious assholes, though. So I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m  _really_ pissed at Kane.”

“I figured,” she says, wry. “I mean, if you’re looking at more reasons to get mad at him, he did send you out here with the one person who was essentially trying to cut your department  _and_  budget just two months ago.”

“And there’s that,” he sighs, shaking at his head ruefully. It feels like forever ago that Clarke was here as a state auditor, hell-bent on making his life as difficult as possible. “But it could be worse, you know? I could be out here with Roan, for one.”

She arches a brow over at him, a smile twitching at her lips. “I rank higher than  _Roan_?”

“You rank higher than a lot of the idiots in my office,” he tells her, because it’s true, at any rate, and also he just wants to see her smile, if he’s being honest. It’s one of those disconcerting things he’s realized about himself, as of late: he  _really_  likes making Clarke Griffin smile. “Left or right?”

“Right,” she says automatically, turning on her heel towards yet another small, impossibly cramped path. If he goes up on his toes, he can sort of spot the Harvest Festival banner from here, along with the ferris wheel, which he takes to be a promising—

“Hang on,” he stops, frowning. “I think we’ve been here before.”

She stiffens at that, lips pursed. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve went down this path already,” he points out, jerking his chin towards the slowly turning ferris wheel, the neon of the flashing lights in the distance making him wince. “We saw this a few minutes back, remember? The lights came on, and you mentioned what a pain it was to get Jaha to loan out his generator.”

“I mean, yeah,” she hedges, shrugging. “But I think we were looking at the back of the ferris wheel, at that point? It’s just— I don’t know. It feels like we’re at a different spot.”

He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but she seems almost  _flustered_ , somehow. “No,” he says, squinting over at her, “ we were here, because I remember seeing the sign for Sue’s Salads, too. Is— hey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” she says, in a voice that’s a little too controlled to be convincing. Then, brightly, “Shall we just go further down this path and see where it leads us?”

“Not when we know that it leads to a literal dead end,” he huffs, throwing his hands up frustratedly. “ _Seriously_ , Clarke. Could you just— I don’t know, trust me on this?”

“I  _do_ ,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest stubbornly. “But I think you’re wrong when it comes to this, okay? I have a good feeling about this path,” she insists, hitching her backpack higher up against her shoulder. “I can’t explain it, but I just do.”

She’s already moving, so he has no choice but to follow anyway, swearing lowly under his breath. “I can’t believe you’re advocating for me to follow your gut instead of cold, hard logic,” he says, rubbing at his face impatiently. “Who are you and what did you do with Clarke Griffin?”

“Karpoi possession.”

“That’s not how they operate,” he scowls, trudging after her carefully. The path seems to be growing smaller, if it’s even possible, the stalks high enough to cast long shadows against the dirt. “And it’s not just that— you’ve been acting a little weird all day.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly unimpressed. “I’m fine, Bellamy.”

“Yeah?” he counters, snorting. “You were late for work today for one,” he says, ticking off his fingers. “Then you  _mistakenly_  ordered a whole basket of muffins from JJ’s instead of your usual,  _and_  then you lost the map to this maze, which is—”

( _Unprecedented_ , he nearly says; the realization dawning on him all at once. She’s determinedly not looking at him, her cheeks flushed, and it takes everything in his power not to laugh because he should have known that this is  _exactly_  the convoluted sort of thing Clarke Griffin would get up to, really.)

“You know what?” he says, casual as can be. “Let’s just— take a minute. Do you still have the muffins from this morning?”

Her gaze jerks back up to him, surprise evident. “Yeah,” she says finally, a small smile playing on her lips. “And uh, some juice too. Jasper offered me some juice boxes before I left.”

“Perfect,” he grins, unzipping his jacket and laying it down on the ground; biting back a smile when he feels her settle in next to him, close enough he can feel her breath warming the side of his neck, knee pressed up against hers. “I could use a break anyway.”


	93. costume contest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'au friends-to-lovers where they enter a halloween couples costume contest because of a cash grand prize despite that they're just friends and not a couple but something happens to make them realize their feelings' + ‘well one of us is going to have to change and it’s not going to be me' + fake dating!

The first time it happens, she’s fourteen, and she’s Princess Leia. **  
**

“No,” Bellamy snarls, plastic pistol in hand and a belt three sizes too big dangling off his hips, “no  _way,_  Princess. You need to change.”

Octavia makes a helpless noise at that— half snort, half giggle— before clapping her hand over her mouth to muffle it. “Oh, c’mon,” she grins, reaching over to kick at his shin, “I think it’s cute! People will think you guys planned it.”

“ _Exactly_ ,” he says, shooting her a venomous look, as if it’s somehow _Clarke’s_ fault that they showed up in matching costumes. “I don’t want anyone associating me with the Princess.”

“Likewise,” she sneers back, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t know about  _Bellamy_ , but I know that I have a reputation to maintain. One that doesn’t involve being in cahoots with the school’s resident asshole.”

That pulls a snort out of him, the sound distinctly disbelieving. “Please,” he says, dismissive. “As if anything could knock that shiny little crown of entitlement off your head.”

“Hopefully it’s the same thing that knocks the asshole out of you.”

He scowls, a impatient noise escaping as he shoulders past her with barely a backward glance. “Just keep your distance from me tonight, Princess.” He calls out, grabbing at his keys.

“I always do!” she yells to his retreating back; her breath coming short as she rushes to catch up, falling into step next to him.

+

She’s Catwoman, the next time, and he’s Batman.

There’s a moment where all she can bring herself to do is stare; mouth agape and stupid mask crooked against her face and obscuring half of her vision. Still, there’s no mistaking it, really— she’s going to her first college party in a matching costume with Bellamy Blake.

“I’m not changing,” she snaps, the second he opens his mouth. “So don’t even  _think_ about asking me to.”

He smirks over at her, ruffling at her hair and pulling her mask askew even further. “It’s crooked. Did anyone tell you that?”

+

So it only makes sense— after years and years of continuous, coincidental costume choices— that they capitalize on the situation, for once.

Flitting through the crowd, she stops in her tracks the second she spots a head of dark, unruly curls; his tie loose around his neck and glasses sliding precariously down his nose.  _Of course._

Shaking her head, she comes up behind him, poking him in the ribs. “So this is what the girl at the door meant when she asked if I came with my boyfriend,” she sighs, cocking her chin over at him. “ _Really_ , Bellamy? Did you overhear me telling Octavia about my costume idea?”

He rakes his gaze over her; a slow, amused slide. “You know this has been happening for the past like, five years, right?” he says, squinting over at her. “I’d say that’s a lot of effort required just to piss you off, Princess.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“True,” he grins, shrugging. “But not this year, okay? This was kind of a last minute decision, in case you couldn’t tell. And it’s not like I needed that much preparation for this little ensemble.”

Clarke rolls at her eyes at that, reaching over to straighten at his tie. “Yeah, yeah. Look, I’m not even mad, okay? I just thought we could use this situation to our advantage, for once.”

He arches a single brow over at her, the movement precise and measured (one that she’s never been able to master herself, really, and she has to tamp down the jolt of annoyance at the thought of it). “I’m listening.”

“The couples costume competition,” she says, matter-of-fact. “They pick the winners tonight, and the grand prize is three hundred dollars, which is pretty much easy money for us at this point, considering we’re the best dressed here.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bellamy says, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’d say Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake over there have a great chance too.”

“They’re  _supposed_  to be characters from Doctor Who.”

“… Oh.”

Resisting the urge to fidget, she crosses her arms over her chest instead; doing everything in her power to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching over to tangle her fingers in his hair, messing it up further. “So? In or out, Blake?”

He studies her, expression still frustratingly unreadable. “Fine,” he says finally, as if he’s doing her some sort of great favor. “But you have to use part of your share to take me out for pancakes.”

(It’s one of the their Halloween traditions, from when they were kids— trick or treating, a scary movie, and pancakes at iHop after. She’s more surprised that he remembers, if she’s being entirely honest.)

“Yes, Bellamy,” she says, working to keep her voice saccharine sweet. “You can get your sugar-laden, food-coma inducing pancakes after.”

“Good,” he says, before winding an arm around her; the sudden warmth of his palm against her shoulder making her shiver, leaning closer instinctively. “And hey, don’t forget: you’re supposed to _like_  me.”

“Like it’s going to be  _that_  hard,” she manages, beaming with false cheer. Then, before he can react, she reaches up on her toes, planting a kiss on his cheek. “See?” (The dumbstruck expression on his face is priceless, really.)

Still, the first time he introduces her as his girlfriend, she has to stifle a laugh by biting at the inside of his cheek. It’s not hard work, at any rate— though she’ll admit that Bellamy is a lot better at it than she thought he would be. It’s pure adoration in his eyes every time he looks over at her, his hands flitting from the small of her back to her waist to her arm, as if he can’t stop touching her now that he can.

It’s… nice. And also deeply,  _deeply_  distracting.

“Want a drink?” he asks, once they’ve made several obligatory rounds around the room. “It’s going to be a little while more before they announce the winners anyway.”

She blinks up at him, her momentary confusion giving way to realization when she remembers the whole reason they’re doing this. “Right,” she says, licking at her lips. Somehow, she’s never noticed the small, crescent shaped moon by Bellamy’s mouth, and it won’t stop distracting her. “In a bit? Once the bar clears out.”

“Sure,” he says, his lips twisting into a frown as he looks down at her. “You okay?”

“Huh?”

“You’re just,” he pauses, making a confusing gesture, “staring at me weird.”

She flushes, her gaze dropping back instinctively to that stupid  _scar_ by his lip. He’s close enough now that she can feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the rise of his chest against hers. “I’m not staring.”

“You’re doing it right now.”

“I’m  _not_ ,” she tells him primly, and she’s not sure what possesses her, really, but then she’s kissing him, fingers twisting in his shirt to pull him closer, the edge of his glasses bumping up against her temple.

They’re both breathing hard when she pulls away, his eyes wide behind the smudged lens of his glasses and her wig lopsided. Distantly, she thinks she hears someone whoop,  _James and Lily!_ though she can’t bring herself to focus on it, right now.

“Sorry,” she blurts out, cheeks flaming. “I thought— uh, there was a judge watching, and I wanted to sell it.”  

The muscle in his jaw seems to flutter at that, his jaw clenching slightly as he regards her. “Oh,” he rasps out, hands still in her hair. Then, darting a glance over to the side, “You mean the guy at the bar, right?”

“Uh,” she braces herself, peeking out from the corner of her eye. There’s no one she can tell that’s even glancing their way, but she’ll take what she can get. “Yes?”

He nods, his expression thoughtful. Then, almost a little  _too_  casually, “He’s still looking at us, you know.”

She can feel her traitorous pulse spiking at his words, a smile working its way up her lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing. Bellamy’s never been much of an open book, but she thinks she can read him just fine, in the moment. Hope and joy and apprehension, all at once, mirroring hers. “You want to sell it a little more?”

“Sure,” she grins, threading her fingers through his hair just like she has always wanted to, pulling him close and tasting his smile. “What’s the harm?”


	94. fall drink competition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we're rivals at a best fall drink competition and i kinda want you to lose kinda wanna make out with you whoops.'

Look, hypothetically, Clarke  _knows_  that the competition is more of a gimmick than anything— it’s not like Dropship Coffee actually adds the winner’s drink to their menu or anything, and it’s not like there’s a cash prize, either. The only thing to be gained from winning is bragging rights, probably, and the satisfaction of beating out everyone else. **  
**

Which means that she _has_  to win, obviously.

“So,” Lincoln asks, a smile twitching at his mouth as he takes in her station, already cluttered with bottles of syrup and flavoring and whipped cream, “what are you going to be making, Clarke?”

Smoothing out the skirt of her apron, she inclines her chin towards the bottles of apple syrup lined up before her, making sure to angle them _just_  right. “It’s a caramel apple latte,” she says, shooting him a winning smile. “Sweet, but with a hint of tart, and topped by crushed apple bits for crunch.”

In all honesty, it’s kind of a glorified pumpkin spiced latte, but it’s not like anyone would know the difference anyway. Besides, it’s exactly the sort of thing that Dropship Coffee would love. Fun, sweet. Instagram worthy. From the murmur going up in the crowd, she’s pretty sure they think so too, so—

Then someone actually  _snorts_ , and all her daydreams of winning by a veritable landslide pretty much goes out of the window.

Whirling towards the source, she has to bite back a small sound of surprise. He’s definitely not anyone she recognizes, that’s for sure, but he looks like someone she’d  _want_  to know. Rumpled, messy bedhead and dark eyes and a cinnamon stick tucked behind his ear, of all things.

“It’s like you just put a whole bunch of fall-inspired ingredients in a hat and pulled some shit out,” he says, upon noticing her aggrieved glare. “It could be worst, though. At least you don’t have any pumpkin in it.”

“What’s wrong with  _pumpkin_?”

He cocks his head over at her, the movement almost predatory. “Nothing,” he says mild, then with a flash of teeth, “unless you like to lose.”

“That’s,” she huffs, directing her focus back on the mess of congealed syrup before her, long forgotten in favor of bickering with the aforementioned stranger, “a bold assumption to make, don’t you think?”

The look on his face is distinctly amused, if anything, which only serves to rile her up further. “Yeah, but it’s a right one.” He points out, the edges of his lips curling up into a smirk as his gaze rakes over her apron, a gag gift from Raven back in their college days when she had been obsessed with The Great British Bake Off; the one that said  _Pie Princess_. “G’luck, princess.”

“I don’t need it,” she sneers, going back to cutting up her apples with new vigor. “If anything,  _you_  do, okay? You and your,” she sputters, hands waving wildly, “whatever drink that only requires three whole ingredients.”

His smirk only seems to grow wider, if anything. “Four, actually,” he says, retrieving the stick of cinnamon from behind his ear. “But, you know. Simplicity is key, right?”

“I beg to differ.” She mutters under her breath, which, surprisingly, pulls a small, muffled laugh out of him. Ignoring the sudden warmth blooming in her chest at the noise, she grabs at the canister of whipped cream, startling when she brushes up against his fingers instead.

She flushes, instinctive. “Hey, I needed that!”

“ _Patience_ , princess.” He says, brandishing the bottle in front of her teasingly before squeezing at it with exaggerated slowness, piling layer and layer of whipped cream on his concoction. “This is shared property, you know.”

It gets worse from there— bumping his hip against hers when she uses the sink, swiping her knife whenever she’s not looking, or even taking a bite out of one of her apples.

It’s downright  _infuriating_ , really. (Well, and distracting too, in the sense where she can’t stop fixating on the way he licks the juices off his fingers, but that’s not the point.)

Still, she has to admit that her end product is  _amazing_ , despite the constant distractions. Sneaking a peek over at his, she frowns down at his cup of what looks like a deceptively simple latte, no whipped cream or cinnamon in sight—

“It’s a honey bee latte,” he announces, plunking his cup down with aplomb. “Essentially, it’s a latte, but I made it with honey instead of sugar. Enjoy.”

 _Seriously?_  Raising a skeptical brow over at him, she drops her voice to a whisper so only he can hear, “You really think making a latte with  _honey_  is going to win you a competition?”

He glances back at her, mimicking her expression. “Yes.”

“That is—”

“Yeah,” Lincoln interrupts, grinning. “This is the one. Congratulations, Bellamy.”

For a second she can only stare, uncomprehending. “Just—  _what_?”

He gives a exaggerated sigh, smirking over at her. “Told you so, princess.” Then, jerking his chin towards his cup, “Try it, if you don’t believe me.”

Shooting him the dirtiest look she can muster, she reaches for the cup, bringing it to her lips. It’s… rich and sweet and a little floral, all at once, warming her to her toes and making her feel strangely at ease.

“It’s good I guess,” she says grudgingly,  _hating_  the pit of disappointment curdling in her stomach. Clarke’s never been all that good at losing, but she knows when she’s been bested. “Slightly above average.”

“Slightly?”

“Shut up,” she mutters, scowling down at her own drink. Some of the apples have sunk to the bottom, which just makes her feel worse, if anything. “I’m just gonna— clean up.”

“You could,” he says, a hint of nerves bleeding into his voice and making her look up, attention snapping over to him. “Or you could get a cup of coffee with me, instead.”

“Oh,” she blinks, a grin working up its way to her face before she can help it. His sudden nervousness is kind of  _sweet_ , actually, and she can’t help wondering if he had been working himself up to it. “Uhm, okay,” she says, before she can overthink it. “Sure.”

The smile she gets in return is  _blinding_. “Okay,” he says, before offering her his hand to shake; warm and dry and smelling faintly of cinnamon, still. “It’s Bellamy.”

“Clarke,” she tells him, taking it and weaving their fingers together, squeezing once. (She has a really, really good feeling about him, strangely enough.) “And yeah, I’d love a cup of coffee.”


	95. lace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'My asshole ex is gonna be at this halloween party and I need to wear a "look at what you missed for cheating on me" look. Can you tell me what costume makes me more hot? Legs, cleavage or both? and...why are you stuttering?'

“What do you think?” **  
**

There’s a brief, fleeting moment when he has no idea what he’s looking at— until it dawns on him that it’s _Clarke_  underneath all that black lace and skirt barely grazing at her thighs and it’s just, _oh._

“Uh,” Bellamy manages, swallowing hard. He doesn’t  _want_  to stare, but there’s a lot of thigh on display and he’s pretty sure the sight of it is short-circuiting his brain. “What?”

She makes a impatient noise, flapping a hand over her ensemble. “My costume. Does it work?”

“I guess,” he hedges, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Honestly, he’s not sure what he’s done to deserve this, but seeing the girl he’s been in love with for half his life in a short, barely-there witch costume is not doing great things to his blood pressure, really. Clearing at his throat, he steels himself, straightening slightly. “What’s the occasion?”

“Finn’s costume party,” Clarke says, doing a little twirl that has him closing his eyes reflexively so the image of it isn’t imprinted to the back of his eyelids for, like, the next century of his life. “I’m kind of going for a  _look at what you missed for cheating on me, you absolute dirtbag_  sort of aesthetic.”

He smiles weakly up at her, clenching the arm of his chair in a valiant attempt to compose himself. This is, possibly, the best and worst day of his life. “Mission accomplished.”

“Yeah?” she smiles, adjusting at the hat perched daintily on her head. “I have a couple more options, you know, just in case. This one has a lot of leg, but I think the others show off a lot more boob, which is ideal.”

Biting back a swear, he runs a palm over his face, pointedly looking away. “Right.”

“Play up my assets, right?”

The most he can manage is a strangled noise of acknowledgement, dropping his gaze back to his book. “Sure.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, if the frown he can make out from the corner of his eye is any indication. He doesn’t lift his head, though, forcing himself to take in the line of text:  _present research proves to be consistent with our views, which state_ —

He stills when her hand lands over the page, fingers darting past his to ease the book shut.

“What?”

“You tell me,” she says, the furrow between her brows deepening as she takes him in. “You’re being… I don’t know. Weird. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he insists, his gaze inadvertently drifting back to the curve of her thigh, the curl of black lace peeking out from the scoop of her dress.  _Jesus._ “I’m just— we should get food. You want something? Takeout? Yogurt?”

Her expression is downright quizzical, at this point. “We just had lunch.”

He manages a nonchalant shrug, turning away to yank at the coat he has draped over his chair. “We could always do with dessert. What do you think of—”

The words die in his throat at her sudden proximity— she’s standing right before him, now, close enough that he can feel the press of her chest against his; the flutter of her fingers when she pushes at his chest, forcing him back onto his chair.

“Uh, Clarke?”

She bites at her lip, looking simultaneously unsure and devastatingly sexy all at once, and it’s all he can do to  _stay_  in his seat, really. Then, tugging on the flimsy strap of her dress, she starts, “So I’m guessing this is really doing it for you, huh?”

His pulse is pounding so loud in his ears that he has to take a second to comprehend what she’s saying. “ _What_?”

“Raven said it’d be a good idea,” she blurts suddenly, folding her arms across her chest. “I don’t know. I thought it would be a laugh, if it didn’t work, but—”

“You wore this for me?” he interrupts, resisting the urge to rub vigorously at his ear to make sure he’s not mishearing things. This is so far out of the realm of reality that he’s feeling a little lightheaded, honestly.

It’s just— this is  _Clarke_. The same person that he’s been in love with all this time, the same person that he had resigned himself to pining for, from afar, and she’s actually going out of the way to do this for him, and—

“You’re supposed to be so overcome with lust, you jump me on the spot.” She mutters, shame-faced. “I mean, it’s what I was hoping for, but.” She stops, taking a deep breath before meeting his gaze. “I guess I was hoping for everything else, too,” she says, quiet, flushing pink. “Like, you know, telling me you had feelings for me, or—”

She gives a little squeak when he curls his hand over her hip, pulling her to him so she lands on his lap. It’s a little overwhelming, having her so close, and he finds himself struck by the knowledge once more that it’s Clarke. That this is playing out like one of the wildest fantasies he’s never allowed himself to think of outside the comfort of his blankets; that this is real.

“Well, I guess this is me telling you that I have feelings for you,” he says, grinning, running his fingers against the small of her back and feeling her melt against him; giving a joyous laugh by his ear before she’s pressing a kiss against his cheek, the jut of his jaw.

“Took you long enough,” she grumbles, nosing at his neck. “I can’t believe you made me put on a  _sexy costume_  before you thought of telling me.”

It’s impossible to keep his own laugh from bubbling out at that, giddy and reckless and incandescently happy. “I can help you out of that, if you’re uncomfortable,” he teases, sliding his hand along the strap as he arches a brow over at her.

“Make me,” she says, breathless, before he’s surging up to kiss her once more; smiling against her mouth before he gets to doing just that.


	96. indoor picnic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'We were going to go on a picnic but it rained so we’re picnicking inside anyway'.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that he has a  _bit_  of a soft spot when it comes to Clarke Griffin. **  
**

He’s not sure how it happened, really— somewhere between the screaming fights and the grudging, reluctant acceptance as the de-facto parents of their rag-tag group of friends, maybe— but at this point, she’s pretty much his favorite person in the world.

(She’s his confidant, his equal, and above all, his best friend. There aren’t many things in the world that he has absolute, unwavering faith in, but Clarke is one of them. He would follow her to the ends of the earth, if need be, and she would do the same for him.)

He supposes that’s why he’s here— sitting in the half-darkness of on the  _ground_  of his living room; butt sore and back aching and trying to poke a hole in his juice box.

“I don’t  _get_  it,” he grumbles, for what must be close to the hundredth time now. “You know we could be eating this off an actual table, right? Or on chairs that provide support?”

The look she shoots him somehow manages to be chastising and impatient all at once. “This is  _atmospheric_ ,” she stresses, straightening the edges of the red picnic mat underneath them carefully. “We’re not giving up on our picnic just because the weather is being a little uncooperative.”

“It’s a literal thunderstorm, Clarke.”

“Which is why we’re having our picnic indoors,” she beams, popping the lid of the basket next to her cheerily. Then, briskly, “Now, apple pie or pecan?”

Bellamy raises a brow over at her, crossing his arms over his chest reflexively. Her insistence at a indoor picnic aside, Clarke has also packed every single one of his favorite foods,  _and_  put NPR on in the background— which are all clear indicators that she’s up to something, really. (He’s known her long enough to discern _that,_  at least.)

“Both,” he says, watching as she sections off a slice with several neat, precise strokes. There isn’t a plate in sight, but he can always just eat with hands anyway, and he’s just about reaching forward just as she intercepts him, holding up a forkful of pie.

“ _What?_ ” she asks, flushing as he regards her, contemplative. “You going to leave me hanging?”

It’s not something that they’ve done, despite the years of friendship between them. It’s a little odd, if he’s being entirely honest, but he’s definitely not opposed to any opportunity to be a little more affectionate with Clarke. “Nah,” he manages, leaning over to get his mouthful. Still, this just makes whatever she’s planning all the more intriguing, and it’s taking a considerable amount of effort for him to be nonchalant about it. “So,” he starts, drumming his fingers against his knee. “You wanna tell me what the occasion is?”

A beat, her brows furrowing together in clear confusion. “Huh?”

“I mean,” he pauses, gesticulating wildly from the basket to the mat to the forkful of pie, still hovering between her fingers, “like, is something going on? Our friendship anniversary? Uh, or did you accidentally kill off my plants when you were in here last week? Because I know you’d never listen to NPR willingly. Well, or not unless you’re trying to butter me up.”

The expression on her face seems to darken almost imperceptibly at that; the sudden change staggering. “You— you don’t remember me telling you about it, last Thursday?”

“Uh,” he scrambles through his muddled thoughts hastily,  _finally_  latching on to the right memory. “When I was grading, right? You said we should do something fun, and I said sure, and you said a picnic would be cool. A little different from what we usually do.”

She bites at her lip, looking away. “That’s all you got?”

He blinks over at her, confusion and worry warring as he takes her in. “… Yes? I don’t— Clarke, am I missing something here?”

The small noise she makes is half amused, half exasperated, but the genuine hurt in her eyes is what gets him. “This was supposed to be a date,” she says, giving a short, watery laugh. “I— I asked you if it was weird, me asking you out, and you said it was fine, and it sounded great, and I guess you didn’t hear me, or we got our wires crossed—”

“Oh,” he breathes, realization dawning; his stomach twisting at her disappointment, the way she turns away from him. “Shit, shit,  _shit,_  Clarke. I was— I was grading, and I wasn’t paying attention, and I’m so,  _so_  sorry. Jesus. This is all my fault.”

“No, no,” she says, with false brightness. “It’s no big deal, okay? We can just pretend it never happened, and I’ll just— turn off the NPR, and we can—”

“No,” he blurts, grabbing at her hand before she can march off, weaving their fingers together gently. It makes her relax, if anything, slumping back against her seat.

“Listen,” Bellamy says, steeling himself. “I didn’t know it was a date, okay? But I— I want it to be. If you’d let me. I may not deserve it, considering how much of an idiot I’ve been, but, yeah. I  _do_  want to go on a date with you.” He swallows hard, stroking a thumb over knuckles. “I just never had the balls to ask you out.”

This time, her laugh is a little more genuine. “You are an idiot,” she says, fond. “I can’t believe you didn’t realize. I refused to cancel, and I got all your favorite snacks, and NPR is on in the background, Bellamy. This is essentially one of your biggest fantasies, and you didn’t realize it was because I was trying to seduce you?”

It’s his turn to flush, slumping down and burying his face in her neck so she can’t spot it. “Shut up,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I just thought— I don’t know. You were trying to break some sort of big news or something.”

“Yeah,” she says drily, scratching at his scalp soothingly and making him sigh contently, “I was going to make this big banner that said, ‘ _I like you, romantic stylez_ ’ but it seemed a little too subtle.”

He groans, turning to face her, noses brushing and her mouth inches away from his. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?” he whispers, grinning.

“Not in a million years,” she tells him, and he remembers thinking that he likes the sound of that before she’s closing the distance between them, kissing and  _kissing_  him until she’s all he can see.


	97. black cat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'My hot neighbour has been looking for her black cat since yesterday and I just found out that my kid stole him for her witch costume. Well, this is embarrassing.'

It doesn’t even occur to Clarke that something’s amiss until she hears it: the unmistakable sound of a soft, plaintive  _meow_ , coming from beneath her desk. **  
**

There’s actually a moment where she thinks, _it’s just the cat_  before memory and coherence all comes rushing back, and she realizes, with a impending sense of horror, that  _they don’t actually own one_ — before she’s scrambling off her seat, dropping into a crouch to get a better look.

And, yup, there it is— a cat; all sleek black and amber eyes and staring at her a tad reproachfully.

“Shit,” she mutters, bringing her palm up to rub at her face. “Shit, shit, shit.” There’s a moment when she actually entertains the possibility of it managing to sneak in, somehow, locked doors and all, when it dawns on her that there’s a lot more of a plausible explanation.

Specifically, one involving Madi.

“Madi!” she thunders, hauling herself upright. “Get in here,  _now_.”

A beat, the sound of footfalls growing louder until she emerges at the door, jaw set and arms over her chest, as if braced for a fight. “Yeah?”

“Tell me that this isn’t  _Mr. Blake’s_  cat.”

She shrugs, the motion flippant. “I don’t know. I just picked her off the street, so I guess it could be a possibility.”

“Madi!” she huffs, pressing her fingers against the side of her temples, where she can feel a headache rapidly forming. “There are missing posters plastered all over the neighbourhood. The guy’s probably freaking out, and you’re telling me that you  _took_ her?”

“It’s not like I broke into his house and grabbed her,” Madi points out, petulant. “She was just hanging around the alley by Lincoln’s, so. It’s not like I  _kidnapped_ her.”

There’s a part of her that’s tempted to mention the whole concept of intent, right about now, but the cat is currently making small, yowling noises of distress, and Clarke can barely think beyond it. “Let me guess,” she says, with exaggerated slowness. “You took her out trick or treating, because she matched your costume.”

She actually preens a little at that, until Clarke’s responding glare stops her short. “I got a lot of compliments,” she mumbles, before averting her gaze guiltily. Then, biting at her lip, “Besides, I fed her and gave her water and everything, okay? I was fully planning on returning her after the recital, but she just took off the second I got home.”

“Right,” she says, forcing a deep breath through her nose.  _In, and out_. “Fine. Head over and return her now, and I’ll keep the grounding to a week. Deal?”

“I can’t, Anya’s mom is coming over right now to drive us to the recital, remember?” A honk sounds at that, right on cue, and Clarke can’t help her grimace at it. The look Madi shoots her is distinctly pleading. “Can’t I do it when I get home?”

The cat is currently winding around her legs now,  _wailing_ , and it takes everything in her power to keep from pulling away, really. She’s never been all that great with animals, and there’s something about her distress that sets her on edge. “Forget it,” she says, making up her mind. “I’ll do it. But you have to write him an apology letter when you get home, which you will deliver personally tomorrow. Okay?”

That gets a half-hearted nod out of her, but it’s an agreement all the same. “Okay.”

“Good,” she says, dropping to her knees and picking her up carefully, trying not to show her surprise when she immediately curls up against her, purring.  _Huh._ “What’s her name?”

“Artemis,” Madi calls out, already half way down the stairs; the jingle of her keys echoing throughout the house. “I’m going!”

“Tell Anya I said hi,” she manages, descending the stairs just as Madi barrels out, waving behind her. “And be safe!”

That earns her some sort of mumbled response in return, followed by the slam of the car door as it peels out of the driveway, taillights fading into the distance.

Biting back a sigh, she drops her gaze back down to the bundle in her arms instead. “Time to get you home, I guess,” she says, easing the front door open with her foot. It’s a bit of a struggle, with her trying to keep her movements as minimal as possible (lest she wakes her) but she manages, somehow, jabbing at the doorbell with her thumb.

The thing is, it’s not like she knows Mr. Blake  _personally._  They’ve been neighbours for all of two months, and they never really crossed paths, in that time. She’s caught glimpses of him, before— his profile as he ducked into his car, or the back of his head when he fetched his mail— but the most she’s gleaned about him is that he’s a History teacher over at the local high school, and that he was from the city. (It certainly fits into the whole middle-aged, experiencing a midlife crisis and moving to the suburbs sort of narrative she has going for him.)

So, yeah, she’s definitely more than a little surprised at the ridiculously attractive individual that gets the door.

“Oh,” she says stupidly, trying not to stare at the acres and acres of bronzed skin, the unruly mess of curls and  _freckles_ , of all things. “Mr. Blake?”

“Bellamy,” he corrects, frowning slightly; his expression quickly brightening when he spots Artemis. “Hey, you found her!”

“Uh,” she makes a helpless gesture with her shoulders, careful not to let the movement dislodge her from her perch, “kind of? It’s a long story, actually. It has to do with my daughter, Madi.”

The confusion in his eyes is clear, but he doesn’t interrupt, which she can’t help but feel grateful for. “Right, uh,” she clears at her throat, willing the flush rushing across her cheeks to abate, “so, Madi is about twelve. And you know, they’re doing the whole trick or treat spiel today, and she’s dressed as a witch, see? So she saw Artemis over at Lincoln’s, and she thought it would be a great idea to bring her along, and it’s just— so irresponsible. I always tell her that she needs to check if—”

“Madi,” he echoes, tilting at his chin. “Oh. Oh. She likes to wear braids in her hair, right?”

“Yeah,” she exhales, her breath escaping her in a rush. “I’m just— I’m so sorry on her behalf, Mr. Blake. She’s—”

“Bellamy,” he corrects, a small smile playing on his lips. “It’s only Mr. Blake when I’m at work.”

It’s highly possible that he’s just being friendly, but she still blushes anyway. “Bellamy,” she says, with a nervous laugh. “Right. Anyway, I’m really sorry for the scare we gave you. I can’t imagine how worried you must be.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, leaning up against the doorway. Then, shaking his head ruefully, “I’ve seen her playing with Artemis, the few times she wandered out to the garden. I should have figured.”

“Yeah, she’s been trying to persuade me that a cat would be a good addition to our little unit,” she says, groaning. “I told her I would think about it, but I didn’t think she would resort to cat burglary, if I’m being honest.”

The smile he shoots her is distinctly conspiratorial, warming her down to her toes. “Kids, right?”

“Kids,” she repeats, lifting her shoulder in a small shrug. She’s wracking her brain for the next thing to say when Artemis makes a small noise, then, uncurling herself to leap gracefully onto the ground, purring as she rubs up against Bellamy.

“Oh,” she says lamely, watching as he reaches over to pet her affectionately, her tail curling in the air as she strides past him and into the house, making small contented noises as she goes. “That’s my cue, I guess.”

“Or you could come in,” he adds hastily, straightening. “I mean, only if you want to. Artemis seems to, uh,” he pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck, “she seems to like you.”

She’s not sure if she’s imagining it, but the tips of his ears look a little red. Ducking at her chin, she bites at the inside of her cheek to keep a full-blown grin from showing. “I’d love to,” she says, extending a hand out. “I’m Clarke, by the way.”

“Good to know,” he tells her, taking it; his grip warm and firm in hers. “Come on in, Clarke.”


	98. pumpkin carving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I sliced my hand open trying to carve a pumpkin for my crush and s/he saw the whole thing and now has to drive me to the hospital. FML.'

Look, as a objective and impartial individual, he has to say that this is almost  _absolutely_  and  _entirely_  Miller’s fault. **  
**

It happens because Monty’s drunk, and Miller’s on door duty, and he doesn’t trust Jasper with knives anymore after that one turkey incident during Thanksgiving. Besides, it didn’t seem like a big deal, at the time. It’s carving _pumpkins_ — something Octavia’s gotten the hang of since she was eight. He’ll carve a few jack-o’-lanterns that none of their less than sober guests will notice, and be on his way.

Except that he’s hacking a lid off the pumpkin when Miller yells, “Blake, your  _girl’s_ here!” and there’s Clarke, appearing by the doorway, smiling up at him and his hand just… slips.

(Most of it, he’s pretty sure, has to do with Miller basically insinuating to everyone in the room that he’s been in love with best friend all his life, but the other half of it can probably be blamed on momentum. Probably.)

Still, it really doesn’t warrant a visit to the hospital.

“I keep telling you, I’m fine,” he protests, slumping back against his seat. Jasper had the bright idea of wrapping a dish towel around his hand so he doesn’t drip blood all over Clarke’s car, and the makeshift bandage seems to be doing its job, at least. It stings, but it’ll stop bleeding at some point, right? “Let’s just go back in and enjoy the party.”

The look she shoots him at that is distinctly disbelieving. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Not really, no.” He grimaces, shifting slightly so he’s keeping his arm elevated. “It’s just a scratch, Clarke.”

“A scratch?” she huffs, turning the full force of her glare over at him. “Bell, that dish towel is soaked through. You’ll need stitches, and maybe a tetanus shot, because god knows where that knife has been. It’s  _Jasper’s_.”

That’s true, at any rate. Giving a half-hearted shrug, he lets his head fall back against his seat rest, hating the petulant quality to his voice. “It doesn’t even hurt.”

“That’s what you said the last time you broke your arm,” she says flatly, switching on her turn signal deftly. It’s one of the things he admires most about her— her ability to stay completely and utterly calm despite having a less than cooperative passenger bleeding out on her new car seats. “You tried playing it off as a couple of bruises, until it swelled to about the size of Russia.”

“I would say Brazil more than Russia, but okay.”

“Not funny,” she says drily, shaking at her head. Then, sobering, “Seriously, Bell. I know you like playing tough, but it’ll make me feel a lot better if you got your wound checked out.”

A snort escapes before he can help himself. “I’m not playing  _tough_.”

“Sure.”

“I’m not,” he points out, reaching up to rub at his face with his unbloodied palm. “I’m just— mad at myself. I didn’t want to spend all of today going to the hospital, I wanted to spend it  _with_  you.” The words are slipping out of him now, hard and fast, and there’s a part of him that recognizes that he’s probably going to regret all of this later, but it’s not like he can bring himself to stop either. “It sounds stupid, but— I wanted to do all those lame Halloween things with you. Drink bad, novelty beers. Stuff ourselves with candy. Strangle Jasper with his stupid cape, maybe.”

That pulls a laugh out of her, her gaze softening a fraction. “Yeah, the latter sounds like a conducive use of our time.”

“It always is with you,” he says, before he can really stop to overthink it. The expression on her face is unreadable, at this point, and he turns away before he can do something  _truly_  stupid, like tell her he loves her, or something. “So,” Bellamy tries, clearing at his throat, “are we there yet?”

“Pretty much,” she says, pulling the car neatly into the nearest lot. “It’s a bit of walk, but I think we can manage it.”

Nodding, he’s already fumbling for his seatbelt just as her hand closes over his, lacing their fingers together.

He stills, freezing instinctively. “What are you doing?”

“I’m just,” she pauses, biting at her lip. There’s doubt in her eyes, but a kind of determination, too, and it’s, possibly, the longest five seconds of his life. “I’m trying to tell you it’s the same, for me,” she says, wry. “About spending time together.” Then, swallowing hard, “I almost always want to spend all my time with you.”

His mouth goes dry, and he has to wet at his lips surreptitiously to even manage a word. The implication in her words are clear, really, and he has to resist the urge to check that he’s not mishearing her. “Oh,” he says dumbly, because it’s all about all he can process when she’s looking at him like  _that_. “Really,” he tries, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep his smile from showing when she grins right back at him, fucking bright. “Even when I’m bleeding all over your brand new car seats?”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward to press a long, lingering kiss against his cheek. (His heart doesn’t implode at the contact, but it’s a near thing.) “Even then.”

Something must show on his face at that, because she’s smiling when she pulls away, fingers cupping at the side of his cheek gently. “Now c’mon,” she tells him, tugging lightly at his uninjured hand. “Let’s get you stitched up.”

He groans, leaning into her touch. “This better not just be a ploy to get me through those doors,” he mutters, pressing a quick kiss to her fingers.

“A little,” she admits, ducking out to get his door open before weaving her fingers in his once more; like she’s not going to let go of him, now that she can. “But don’t worry,” she grins, squeezing at his palm. “There’s a lot more where that came from.”


	99. take my hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'I showed up to this haunted house alone because I thought I wouldn’t be scared but now I am and I might be holding your hand.'

Bellamy’s never been the type to scare easily, really, so working at the community center’s haunted house seems to be an ideal gig. It’s entertaining, if anything, and plus he gets  _paid_  to watch Murphy stumble around with an arrow through his eye. As far as jobs go, it’s probably as good as it can get. **  
**

Still, sometimes, he does get his fair share of… _eccentric_ customers.

“Ma’am,” he tries, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting into laughter. “I’m going to have to ask you to get up from the floor, now.”

The glare he receives in return would be impressive, if the girl in question would actually get up from her half-crouch against the ground. “I can’t,” she hisses, jabbing frantically at something above head. “I don’t want it to see me.”

“What?”

She makes a helpless gesture with her hands, cringing away when Monty gives a theatrical sounding groan, rattling at the bars of his cell. “If I can’t see them, they can’t see me,” she mutters under her breath, rubbing at her face impatiently. “It’s— plain and simple logic, okay? I’ll just stay here, and it’ll be  _fine._ ”

“Right,” he says, fighting back a smile. It’s all kinds of ridiculous, but he has to say that it’s been the most entertaining part of his day so far. “So,” he says, nonchalant, “I take it you’re just going to stay here until we close up for the day?”

“Sounds about right, yeah.”

“Solid plan.” He nods, before casting a surreptitious glance around the room. The rest of the tour seems to have moved on, thankfully, and there’s no harm in hanging back to comfort a obviously distressed customer, right? Carefully, he eases down onto the ground next to her, letting his head thump back against the wall. “Except, you know. The part where you sort of disrupt me from doing my job entirely.”

That pulls a helpless groan out of her. “Shit,” she mutters, pulling her hands away from her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not, like— I’m not trying to be difficult, or anything,” she continues, eyes wide and beseeching. “I just— look, I  _knew_  this was a bad idea from the start.”

“And yet…?”

“It was a dare,” she huffs, with the tilt of a chin as if daring him to say more on it. (He decides to, wisely, keep his mouth shut.) “I just have to get through this house without chickening out, and Raven will shut up forever about the time I peed my pants in the fourth grade.”

A laugh slips out, though he sobers quickly enough when that earns him another one of her glares. “Like,” he says, struggling to maintain a straight face, “right there, in front of everybody?”

“I have a irritable bladder!” she protests, dropping her face into her hands when he snickers. “Great,” she grumbles, looking downright miserable. “Can’t believe I just told a cute guy about my bladder. This day can’t get any worse.”

He can’t help the slight flutter in his chest at that (she thinks he’s  _cute_ ). “Look, uh…?”

“Clarke,” she supplies, resting her chin against her knees.

“Clarke,” he repeats, tapping an idle beat out against his knee. “Technically, your day could get a lot worse, considering how much of a field day Raven is going to have when you emerge from here about six hours later.”

“Thanks.”

“Or,” he pauses, mostly because he’s dramatic and he enjoys a inspirational speech more than anyone he knows, “you could walk out of this house with me, head held high and dignity intact. Your choice.”

The look she shoots him is distinctly disgruntled, though he can’t help but notice the spark of interest in her eyes at that. “So,” she says, biting at her lip, “you’re telling me that you’ll walk with me through the  _entire_  house?”

“Yeah,” he tells her, stretching his hand out for her to take. “Promise. Oh and I’m Bellamy, by the way. Bellamy Blake.”

“Bellamy,” she says, and he thinks he could get used to the way she says his name, really; her lips twitching slightly at the corners. Then, teasing, almost, “You better not leave me stranded alone anywhere in this house, Bellamy Blake.”

“Count on it,” he tells her, ducking his chin to hide a smile when she slides her hand into his. “Now, c’mon,” he manages, squeezing at her palm. “We have a haunted house to get through together.”


	100. egged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: ' I accidentally egged the wrong house and I’m trying to apologize but it’s one in the morning and you’re pissed off and I’m so sorry?'

The worse part of it all, probably, is that it had been  _Raven’s_  idea in the first place. **  
**

“What do you mean you’re not coming?” she hisses, repositioning her phone against the jut of her shoulder. It’s a bit of a challenge, juggling a tupperware full of eggs, a few rolls of toilet paper and her phone, but she’s managing, somehow. “You do realize that _I’m_  not the one with the grudge against Kyle Wick, right?”

Her sigh is accompanied by a crackle of static, so loud that Clarke winces. It’s not unexpected, considering how far out Wick’s house is, but she can’t tamp down the spike of annoyance that swells at every disturbance.

“I know, but I can’t— get—  _sorry_ — Clarke?”

“Just,” she groans, pulling her phone away from her ear with an annoyed huff as the line dissolves entirely into static, “never mind.”

Swearing, Clarke slides her phone into the pocket of her jeans, glaring up at the house before her. It’s a little more run-down, than she expected, knowing Wick’s tendency to be ostentatious, but it’s a nice house all the same. Porch swing, cheery flower boxes by the window, freshly mowed grass. And it’s not like he has done anything to her personally, so she should just let this go, really, and head home—

She’s moving before she can second guess herself, fingers curling around the egg before releasing it, watching it sail across the lawn and land against the banister with a loud, satisfying  _splat._

A giggle escapes before she can escape herself, bubbling into a full blown laugh by the time she reaches for the next, aiming for the mailbox.  _Splat._  The roof, then one of the windows, and—

“Hey, what the hell!”

She blinks, mid-throw, gaze landing on the figure silhouetted against the doorway of the house. The first thing she registers is that he’s a little taller than Wick, and broader, too, and that—

He’s  _not_  Wick.

“Oh,” she breathes, backing up instinctively as the guy in question stomps out, glasses askew and hair rumpled. “Shit. Shit, shit,  _shit_.”

The rational, logical part of her is begging her to run, but she finds that she can’t look away, really, watching as he takes in the wreck before him. He looks downright livid, which she can’t blame him for, considering how it’s already starting to smell, and—

“Are those deviled eggs?” he demands, swiping a finger through the mess on his mailbox. Then, spotting the tupperware in her hand, he swears, throwing his hands up. “ _Seriously_? Why would you egg someone’s house with that?”

“I don’t know,” she flounders, dropping the rolls gracelessly in her haste. “I have never egged a house before, okay? Raven said,  _bring eggs_ , and I thought any eggs would do, and my mom had a PTA meeting over at the house yesterday, so.” She stops, breathing hard. The guy is regarding her with a raised brow now, arms crossed over his chest to reveal very hard, well-defined biceps. Licking at her lips, she forces herself to look away. “Sorry?” she offers.

“So,” he pauses, brows scrunching together. “This wasn’t meant for me?”

“Ah, uh, no.” She says feebly, drumming her fingers idly against the tupperware lid. “I don’t even know you. It’s just, Raven said this was where Kyle Wick—”

“Dick,” he interrupts, nodding sagely. “The guy lives two doors down.”

“… Oh.”

“Yeah,” he continues, clearly unfazed. “Whatever it is, he probably deserves it.”

“Trust me, he does.” She mutters, rubbing at her forearms to ward off the sudden chill in the air. It dawns on her, then, just as the clouds clear slightly, that she does know him. Bellamy Blake is impossible to miss, even in the half-dark, his notoriety spanning several years above and below him. It’s a inevitability, considering his reputation as the town’s resident black sheep, but it’s not like ever she’s talked to him personally, prior to this. “Bellamy, right?” she tries, lacing her fingers together. “I’m Clarke? We’re in A.P English together?”

That pulls a smirk out of him, the expression distinctly amused. “I know who you are, Princess.” he says, turning on his heel. “I’d say it’s nice meeting you officially, but you  _did_  just egg my house.”

“I said I was  _sorry_ ,” she grumbles, flushing as she leans down to grab at the toilet rolls scattered along the grass. “Look, I’ll just— let me help you clean up.”

“It’s fine,” he points out, shoulders lifting into another one of those full-bodied shrugs. “Besides,” he says, voice dropping to a sarcastic drawl, “I was planning on doing some spring cleaning in the morning anyway.”

She has to bite at the inside of her cheek to hide a smile. (He had been reading  _Girls at War and Other Stories_  under his desk, the other day. She’s not sure why she wants to ask him about it now, or why she had it remembered it in the first place, but she does.) “A bit early for spring cleaning, isn’t it?”

“You know how it is, with the early bird and the worm.”

“You could do that,” she blurts, her grip over the tupperware tightening convulsively, “or you could come egg Kyle Wick’s house with me.”

There’s a beat as he seems to consider that, his chin cocked and eyeing her contemplatively. (She’s not sure why, but she’s holding her breath.)

Then he’s easing the door shut behind him, instead, crossing past her to grab at one of the rolls of toilet paper still abandoned on the grass. “Well, Princess?” he asks, a grin lighting up his face and transforming it entirely. “You coming or what?”

“I’m the one who asked  _you_ ,” she huffs, shaking at her head before darting forward to catch up (he’s shaking his head, too, but the corners of his mouth are lifted, and she can’t help but think about how she’s going to learn all of his smiles before the sun comes up.) “Alright then,” she says, falling into step next to him, “let’s get the show on the road, Bellamy Blake.”


	101. It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we saw IT and now I can't sleep. Can I sleep with you? + 'hiding behind the other’s back while watching horror movies.'

Movie night remains to be one of the few traditions that Bellamy still appreciates, despite the group’s tendency to pick the  _worse_ , most B-rated like films there are. There’s a copious amount of popcorn, blanket forts (one of Jasper’s bright ideas) and alcohol, which means that there is always a 50/50 chance of them passing out in the living room by the time the credits roll out. Still, it’s definitely one of the few things that stay undisputed amongst them (much unlike poker night, Sunday brunch, and the concept of pizza rolls as a whole). **  
**

Which is why it’s so _odd_  when no one but Clarke shows up.

“Remind me again why we’re watching this when it’s just us?” he points out, catching her flinch just as the music rises to a crescendo, the scene before them dissolving into a bloodbath.

“ _Because_ ,” Clarke says, shrinking down in her seat, “I’m tired of not getting the memes that Jasper sends over, okay?” Then, scowling, “I want to be in on the jokes. I want to be able to laugh along with you guys whenever you all make fun of the people who unironically say they want to fuck clowns.”

It’s an effort to keep from laughing at the petulant, sulky expression on her face at that. “You can still make fun of them without having to watch the movie,” he reminds her, nudging lightly at her ribs.

“It’s not the same,” she declares stubbornly; a small, distressed noise escaping when the screaming starts, a maniacal laugh following. “Jesus, people do this for  _fun_?”

“Unfortunately,” he agrees, rubbing at her back comfortingly when she turns her face away, burrowing into his side. (He’s probably enjoying it way more than he should— for purely  _platonic_ , friendship-like reasons, of course.)

Then he feels her phone buzz, the screen lighting up from where she had abandoned it against the seat cushions moments before.

**Raven:** _so is it working??_

**Raven:** _are u guys making out yet_

**Raven:** _answer me!!!!!_

It takes him a second to comprehend that they’re talking about him, really, and another second for him to wrap his head around the fact that _Clarke Griffin wants to make out with him, holy fuck._  It feels so far out of the realm of possibility that he has to resist the urge to pinch himself to make sure he’s not dreaming, or anything.

“Bell?”

He startles, snapping out of his reverie. She’s looking up at him, now, concern furrowing at her brow, and a memory rises up within him unwittingly— watching The Shining with Clarke, years back; the way she hadn’t even flinched when Jack had starting hacking at the door with the axe, and the cool, almost analytical way she had observed the whole chase through the hedge maze. She’s the most levelheaded, logical person he knows, really. The thought of her being genuinely frightened by a movie with a clown as the source of all evil seems kind of laughable, in hindsight.

“Sorry,” he recovers, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep a smile from showing, because Clarke Griffin is literally jumping through  _hoops_  so she can make out with him, when all she had to do was ask. (Hell, the act of her asking alone would probably render him unconscious, but the fact that she’s scheming her way to it is so typical of her that he wants to burst into laughter right there.) “Got a little lost in my thoughts.”

She frowns up at him, chin resting against his chest. “About what?”

He makes a nonchalant noise, brushing his fingers down the length of her spine and making her shiver. “Just, you know. About horror movies in general.”

“… Okay?”

“And, just,” Bellamy pauses, struggling to compose herself. It’s getting really difficult to keep from giving the game up right about now, but there’s a kind of satisfaction from making her squirm, just a little. Gently, he brings his hand up, grazing it at the side of her neck instead. “Remember when Jasper went through that phase of getting us to watch all the supposed horror classics?”

She stiffens at that, but it could be because he’s playing with her hair now; thumb brushing at her cheek every few minutes. “No.”

“Yeah, he did,” he shrugs, nudging at her temple with his nose. “I freaked out over The Blair Witch Project, remember? Miller had to sit in when I took my shower.”

He can hear the slight hitch in her breath when he ghosts his lips over her forehead. “I guess,” she says, shaky. “So?”

“So it’s kind of weird that you could watch all of that straightfaced when you’re freaking out over a PG13 clown movie now,” he says, wry. “I mean,  _clowns_ , Clarke—”

“That’s— just— I could have a phobia of clowns,” she sputters, flushing, “and it’s really  _unreasonable_ for you to assume that—”

He reaches forward, cupping at her cheek with his palm. It silences her immediately, her eyes going wide as she takes him in, her mouth dropping open to gape. “You know you didn’t have to go through all that effort just to get to snuggle with me, right?” he teases, pressing their foreheads together. “You could have just said so. I,” he stops, struggling to tamp down the surge of hope rushing through him, “I would have said yes. Always.”

A beat before she finally speaks, looking distinctly sheepish. “I mean, I want to do more than snuggle with you,” she mumbles, looking away. Then, biting at her lip apprehensively, “Raven told you?”

“You left your phone out, Princess. What kind of piss poor management is that? I feel like I should be offended, but—”

She kisses him before he can finish,  _determined_ and thorough and everything he thought kissing Clarke Griffin would be like. He can’t help it, he laughs, winding his fingers through her hair and pulling her on top of him, feeling her settle into his arms as if she’s belonged there all along.

“So, do you want to keep criticizing my methods of seduction or do you want to make out with me more?” she breathes, twisting her fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

“The latter,” he grins, hitting at the remote haphazardly until the screen goes to black before pulling her close once more, feeling her smile against his mouth. “Definitely the latter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes, a 101 chapters is a LOT, so I swear I'm closing this fic once I've posted up all of this year's halloween prompts. Thanks for sending them in, you guys!


	102. tootsie roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'we’re both last minute candy shopping and you are not allowed to grab the last chocolate variety pack I’ll fight you.'

At this point, Clarke’s not sure what’s worse, really: the mostly emptied-out candy aisle, or the lone bag of tootsie rolls in her basket. **  
**

“The tootsie rolls,” she mutters, glaring down at it. There’s something distinctly mocking about the bubbly, cheery font. Or maybe it’s just the prospect of spending the night alone on Halloween with nothing but a bag of vanilla flavored midgees for company. “Definitely the tootsie rolls.”

(The thing is, it’s not like it’s her first time spending a holiday by herself. She wouldn’t mind it as much, really, if it wasn’t one of her favorites. But Wells and Raven are off on a conference, and Monty is out of town, and she’s not desperate enough to hang out with Jasper one on one, really.)

So, here she is:  _alone_  and friendless, all set to devour a bag of candy she doesn’t even  _like_  all while watching Hocus Pocus reruns.

“Pathetic,” she grumbles, tossing the bag out in a moment of defiance. Maybe she’ll find a bag of Reese’s, if she looks hard enough, or—

The sight of an arm swooping in startles her out of reverie, happening so suddenly that she squeaks, backing up a few steps.

“Sorry,” a voice says, curt, and she registers messy curls and brown eyes and  _freckles_ before it dawns on her that there’s a bag of tootsie rolls in his cart.

 _Her_  bag of tootsie rolls.

“Hey!” she gapes, stomping after him, “that’s— sir, there’s been a mistake.” It’s an effort to keep up, considering his stride is significantly longer than hers, but she does her best anyway. “I put it down for one second, but—”

“So that’s  _your_  mistake now, isn’t it?” the guy snaps, already turning away.

There’s clear impatience written all over his features, lips already twisting into a frown, and there’s a part of her that recognizes that this is a lost cause, really, and that she should just give it up, but.

It’s  _Halloween_ , damn it, and she  _needs_  her requisite bag of candy.

“No,” Clarke insists, picking up the pace and rounding on him. The motion forces him to an abrupt stop, and she can’t help the surge of triumph at the surprise that flits across his face at it. “ _No_ , you hear me? I saw it first, and I had it in my basket, so. Technically, it’s mine, okay? You taking it is equivalent to stealing.”

That pulls a scoff out of him, and she tries not to think about how even that is an attractive look on him. “Ma’am, look, I saw you put it  _back_  on the shelf, okay?” he scowls, hefting his basket up once more. “If you wanted it, you shouldn’t have removed it from your basket.”

“It was a moment of weakness!”

“Which I pounced on,” he replies, matter-of-fact, reaching past her to grab at several bags of red solo cups. “I don’t know what to tell you, okay? It’s your loss? Don’t hesitate next time when it comes to sugary, calorie-laden snacks? Take your pick.”

The indignant noise escapes before she can help herself, which is definitely counterintuitive to the calm-and-collected-approach she had been deliberating just moments before.  _Fuck it._

“You don’t understand, okay?” she counters, trailing after him as he loads his cart with plates and chips and soda. “I need them. It’s— tradition. Something my dad and I used to do, back when I was a kid. Candy and a movie.”

The look he shoots her is distinctly pained and disbelieving all at once. “Don’t say it,” he groans, dropping his head forward against the cool metal of the shelf. “Don’t you  _say_  it.”

“He’s dead, now,” she says, working to keep her voice solemn and a little wistful, too. (Look, she’s not above playing the dead-parent card. Clarke is shameless like that.) “About five years back. Did I mention that it happened around fall, too? And right—”

“Listen,” he cuts in, rubbing at his face. “Ordinarily, I would just the cute, really persistent girl have the bag of candy, okay? But my sister is having a party tonight, and she needs this. It’d be, quote,  _the end of her high school social life_ , end quote, if she doesn’t.” She wonders if he’s realizes he’s frowning, brows bunching together before continuing, “Even though I told her that I’d be working on my thesis all night and that I don’t want to be disturbed, or—” he stops, huffing impatiently. “Whatever,” he grumbles, shaking at his head. “Anyway. Sorry.”

She blinks, uncrossing her arms. “As in, she just…  _sprung_  it on you?”

“… I guess.”

“That’s,” she hesitates, biting at her lip. Then, figuring that it’s not like she has anything to lose anyway, “An absolute dick move, by the way. You know that, right? It’s shitty.  _And_  selfish.”

That earns her a pointed brow raise, though she can’t help notice that there’s a smile playing on his lips, too. “Sure. Thanks, Oprah.”

“It’s Clarke, actually,” she tells him, shrugging. “Clarke Griffin. Uh, shameless tootsie roll eater, I guess.”

He takes her offered hand, his grip warm and firm in hers. “Bellamy Blake.”

It’s a nice name, if she’s being entirely objective. Pulling back, she swallows, trying to ignore the tingling rushing up her arm at his touch. “Well,” she starts, shoving her hands into her pockets. “You are in kind of more a dire need for these than I am, so. Consider them yours.”

The cock of his chin is contemplative, but he seems almost  _disappointed,_ somehow. “Wow,” he says, wry. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.” She manages, throwing a quick smile over her shoulder. “Uh, I’ll just go, and—”

“Or,” Bellamy interrupts, his voice wavering ever so slightly. “We could split the bag? Together? They’re, uh,” he pauses, his hand going up to the flushed skin by the back of his neck, “playing Halloweentown at the drive-in next door. If you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

It’s definitely not what she had in mind for her night, but it’s pretty hard to complain, considering her circumstances. “Yeah?” she teases, nudging at his elbow playfully. “So, you’re just going to deprive the teenagers back at your house of candy?”

“Tootsie rolls give you cavities anyway,” he says, rocking back on his heels; the movement more nervous than anything. (It’s…  _endearing_ , if she’s being entirely honest.)

“Fair enough,” she grins, reaching over to drop a bag of pretzels in his cart. His smile grows wider, if anything, and it’s  _definitely_  her favorite look on him. “C’mon, then,” she says, tugging him along, “we could do with a few more options.”


	103. masquerade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 'bellarke + we’re in costume and I know exactly who you are but pretend I don’t so I have an excuse to make out with you just once.' slightly tweaked to fit in exes!

Logically, Clarke  _knows_  that the whole point to a masquerade party is to maintain a sense of anonymity. That’s the entire appeal behind it, right? The drama, and the flair, and the mystery of not knowing who’s who. It’s like playing a  _really_  convoluted game of charades, except with the lights off, and with the ever-present fear that the person you’re making out with is a Nazi-supporting fascist.

Which is why she can’t help feeling a little cheated that she recognizes Bellamy Blake on sight, mask and all.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that they’ve only broken up two weeks back, and that she’s been closely acquainted to the shape of his ass for  _years_. Or maybe it’s because he’s the only person she knows who would ever deck himself up in the whole centurion garb, matching mask and all.

But it’s what makes it even more ironic, really, considering he has no idea who she is.

“Let me guess,” he says, sidling up to her. “Princess Peach.”

(There’s a minute where she entertains the fantasy of him knowing, somehow— of him being capable of looking at her without any kind of animosity in his eyes, smile easy and chin cocked.

Then she remembers that it’s not who they are.)

“Yeah,” she manages, forcing a smile. It’s loud enough in the club that he wouldn’t be able to discern her voice, probably, but she still pitches it a little lower just to be safe anyway. “And you’re a Roman centurion?”

“Technically I’m just a centurion,” he shrugs, flashing her a smile. The sight of it— effortless and fleeting and everything she’s missed over the past few days— makes her ache, stealing her breath momentarily. “The term itself is pretty much only applicable to a officer of the Roman army, so saying Roman centurion is kind of moot.”

 _Nerd._  There’s a part of her that’s almost in disbelief over how he could think that this is a viable way to pick up girls, really, but it’s  _Bellamy_. Everything from his too-grumpy demeanour to his extensive knowledge on Greek and Roman culture had charmed her.

(It still does, if she’s being entirely honest.)

Her eyes are stinging, but she disguises with it a quick cough, steadying her voice. “Cool,” Clarke says, squaring her shoulders. “So, I know this may be a little direct, but,” she steels herself, digging her nails into the skin of her palm, “do you wanna get out of here? Go somewhere a little quieter?”

It’s funny, because she already knows whatever he says is probably going to break her heart anyway. Still, she’s pretty sure she feels it splinter right down the middle when he nods, smiling faintly. “Okay,” he says simply, extending a hand out. “Where to?”

Tamping down a swell of hurt, she looks away, taking his hand instead. “C’mon,” she says, pushing through the crowd, her ex-boyfriend on her heels, “I know a place.”

It doesn’t take her long to find a quiet stairwell, and she’s  _on_ him the second they push through the doors, winding her arms over her shoulders and kissing him, hard. He stumbles back, a surprised huff escaping, but she just presses on anyway, jumping slightly so he lifts her instinctively.

(If this is the last time she’s ever going to kiss Bellamy Blake, she’s damn well going to make it  _count_.)

She’s pawing at the buttons of his shirt when he pulls back, his hand sliding up to her face to hold her steady. “Hey,” he murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. “Just—  _Clarke_. Stop.”

It takes a second for his words to sink in, halting in her tracks as she looks up at him, breathing hard. “You— wait, you  _knew_?”

“Yeah,” he tells her, his fingers sliding through her hair and undoing her mask, his motions careful and measured. Then, a little ruefully, “You think I would have gone off with you, otherwise?”

She can’t help the shaky laugh that emerges, tears rising hard and fast. “I don’t know,” she gurgles, wiping at her face. “I mean I wouldn’t— I wouldn’t blame you, if you did? I was an ass.”

“Are,” he corrects her, smiling slightly. “Present tense. You’re definitely still kind of an asshole a lot of the time.”

She groans, punching at his arm lightly. That seems to ease the tension slightly, at least. “God,” she mumbles, burying her face against the jut of his shoulder. “How are you still joking about this? I— I broke up with you. Because I was scared, and stupid, and—”

“C’mon,” he snorts, pressing a absent kiss to her hairline. “You don’t get to claim full credit, here, Princess. I shouldn’t have said to those things either.” His breath is uneven against her temple, his voice halting as he continues, “You told me from the start, that you wanted to take things slow. I shouldn’t have pushed.”

“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have tried to cut and run either.”

She senses rather than sees his smile. “Yeah,” he says, wry. “That one’s on you.”

Scowling, she pulls back, flicking at his forehead as he veers aside, barely dodging it. “Dick.”

He catches at her hand, his eyes impossibly soft, and she thinks she falls in love with him even more, in that moment. (Sometimes, she wonders how she got so lucky. How she managed to find someone that makes her feel like ten thousand goddamned helium balloons in her chest can also anchor her to the ground, all the same, but here they are.) “A dick you’ve missed,” he teases, kissing at her fingers. Then, so light she has to strain herself to hear it, “I’ve missed you too, Princess.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs, looping her arms around him to pull him close, sealing her lips over his. “I think I can help with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Accepting more prompts on my [ tumblr ](http://okteivia-blakes.tumblr.com)


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